


MY BOYS REDUX

by SupernaturallyEgocentric



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 13:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 51,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13637061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupernaturallyEgocentric/pseuds/SupernaturallyEgocentric
Summary: This is a pre-series story. Dean is 19, Sam 15. John has a secret and that secret is about to tear the Winchester family apart. How far will Dean go to keep his little brother safe? Pretty damned far.This story is a retelling of "My Boys", which had lots of yummy Wincest. I wanted to rework it without the Wincest angle. Now complete.





	1. Chapter 1

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It was time. Past time. Sam had to leave – now.

He'd left a note for his brother on the kitchen table. Thinking that Sam was nerding it up with a study group at the library would hold Dean off for a while. One, maybe two hours.

Not a lot of time. It would be better if he could wait until tomorrow, but he couldn't take the chance. Maybe if he'd read Dad's journal last night when he'd first found it . . .

Sam took a shaky breath. He hadn't read it until this afternoon, okay, so now it was time for him to man up and just freaking leave. Truth was, his brother would be better off – safe – when Sam was gone.

Later, once he'd had time to think, he could figure out what to do next.

Pulling his duffel up onto his shoulder, he started for the front door and was jerked to a sudden halt by a familiar deep voice.

"Sam? Where you going?"

Startled, Sam spun around to face his father, standing in the kitchen doorway.

"Dad!"

"Sam." John Winchester looked at the duffel slung over his youngest son's shoulder, not missing the fact that Sam hadn't answered his question.

"What - I don't – " Sam stumbled to a halt, trying desperately to think. "What are you doing here? I thought – Wisconsin?"

"False alarm. Caleb called me off before I got too far out. So - where are you going?"

Sam's mind went completely blank. He couldn't think of a single lie his father would believe. Dropping the duffle, he ran for the front door.

John, after one startled moment, was right behind him, catching up just as Sam opened the door. John grabbed him by the back of his jacket, jerking him to a halt, then planted one big hand against the door and slammed it shut.

"What the hell is this, Sam?" he said angrily. "Another Flagstaff?"

Sam ducked and wriggled free, leaving his jacket in John's hands. Before he could escape, his father let the jacket go and grabbed Sam hard by the back of the neck. He dragged Sam to the sofa and dumped him onto it. "I thought you'd got this running away crap out of your system."

Sam dropped his eyes, breathing hard. "I'm sorry, Dad."

John's gaze grew suspicious. Sam didn't do apologies. Resentful silences, slammed doors, flat-out screaming temper tantrums, sure.

Apologies? Never.

This was no Flagstaff.

"Where were you going?" John snapped. "And where the hell is Dean?"

"Dean's got nothing to do with this!" Sam tried to get up.

John shoved him back down. "Start talking."

Sam looked into his father's face, hesitated.

"I - I found your journal."

John froze. Then in one swift ruthless movement, he yanked his son off the couch and dragged him toward the stairs.

Off-balance at first, Sam managed to get his feet under him, tried to dig in his heels, but couldn't get a grip on the worn carpet.

"Dad!"

John glanced back at him, face blank, but didn't say a word, just pulled his son inexorably onward.

Sam whimpered.

The stairs.

Sam had dreamed of this moment. John, the stairs - if he went up the stairs with his father, he was never coming back down again!

Dean would come home and Sam would be gone, just not how he'd planned. John would tell Dean that his little brother had run away and he'd have the note to prove it, written in Sam's own hand!

Yes, Dean would look for him, Sam knew that as well as he knew his own heart, but he would never think to look to their father for the answer.

Only John would know that Sam had never left, that his body lay broken and bloody on the floor of his father's closet, the evidence of his obsessive hatred on his son's lifeless body.

"NO!"

With a cry of horror, Sam flung himself at his father.

"Damn it, Sam, ouch!" John ducked and dodged, trying to both keep hold of his son and avoid his well-placed blows. "Knock it off! Damn it, stop!"

"Let – me - go!"

His terror and rage growing with each passing second, Sam kicked out again and his heavy boot caught John a lucky blow on the upper thigh.

"Ah, ow, shit, you little fucker!" Groaning, John grasped at himself. Sam wrenched himself free.

"Damn it!" Steeling himself against the pain, John reached out to grab hold of his son again, then froze.

Eyes blazing out of an ashen face, Sam held a gun pointed directly into his father's face.

For a long minute, there was no sound in the room but the ticking of the clock on the wall and the heavy breathing of the two combatants.

"I forgot I had it." Sam's laugh was jagged. "Stupid, huh? What you're planning to do to me and I still don't want to hurt you."

Slowly, slowly, John took a step back. "You are out of your damned mind."

"Just stay back."

John judged the distance between them, decided against it, for now. "Sam, we need to talk."

"No, we don't." Sam nodded to the couch. "Go sit down."

John's eyes narrowed, but he didn't move.

Sam cocked the gun. "Now!"

Warily eying him, John backed up until his legs hit the couch and dropped down onto it. "You're sick, you must be, to point a gun at me."

Sam's mouth twisted bitterly. "That's a laugh. You were planning to kill me."

Something in John's face changed and Sam's face crumpled.

The sound of the kitchen door slamming resounded through the house, startling them both.

"Hey, Dad!" Dean called out cheerfully. "You back?"

A smug smile appeared on John's face. Sam's heart sank into his shoes.

Dean, still in his work clothes, a smudge of oil high on one cheek, appeared in the kitchen doorway. He stopped dead when he saw Sam's gun.

"Dad?" he said uncertainly.

John started up from the couch. "About damned time you got here - "

"Don't move!" Sam's voice was high and breathless but the gun held firm.

Reluctantly, John sat back down. "Sam, come on. It's over."

"What's going on?" Dean's eyes tracked between them, settled on his brother. "Sam?"

"He's leaving," John broke in. "Your brother's leaving."

Dean's eyes widened. "What?"

Sam looked at Dean desperately, the gun starting to shake in his hand. "I have to."

"Sammy, why?"

"It doesn't matter why he's leaving, Dean," John interrupted again, voice harsh. "You need to get hold of this situation right now."

Dean flicked a glance at his father, then focused back on his brother. "Sammy, talk to me."

"Damn it, Dean -" John stood up.

Startled, Sam fired a shot into the floor at his father's feet.

John fell back onto the couch, his weight pushing it back a few inches, and Dean stumbled back against the kitchen door.

"Are you insane?" John rasped. "What the hell are you doing, son?"

Rage burned through Sam's fear and his hazel eyes flared dangerously.

"Don't you call me that!" he spat. "I'm not your son. Not anymore!"

"Sam, what the fuck!" Dean took a few quick steps forward.

Sam dragged his eyes from his father back to Dean, throat tightening at the pain and confusion in his older brother's eyes

The question sounded so simple. It was anything but.

"Do you think it's my fault Mom died, Dean?"

His father's face darkened. "Don't you talk about her."

"Dad, what –" Astonished, Dean gaped at John, then back at Sam. "Of course it wasn't your fault!"

"Dad thinks it's my fault!"

"That's not true," Dean protested, aghast. "I don't know where you're getting this, Sammy –"

"Just take the damned gun away from him!" John said angrily. "He won't shoot you, go over there and get the damned gun!"

"Dad, will you just be quiet!"

"Dean, do what I tell –"

"The demon told me everything!" Sam shouted into the chaos, then cringed.

It got quiet real fast.

"What?" John and Dean spoke together.

"He's been coming to me in my dreams for weeks," Sam's eyes darted nervously back and forth between the two. "He showed me what happened the night Mom died. I - " He faltered, went on. "I saw - he fed me his blood before he killed her."

"Sammy, no," Dean said, horrified.

John moved and Sam focused back on him. "Don't you move." His finger quivered on the trigger, wanting to shoot.

Shoot John, himself, just fucking end this, now.

Dean saw something of that in his brother's face.

With a great effort, he pulled himself together and spoke, drawing Sam's attention back to himself.

"I don't understand, Sammy. Why demon blood?"

"It's not just me." Sam swallowed. "He did the same thing to lots of other kids. We're his weapons, some kind of stupid evil army." He shook his head disbelievingly. "God, that sounds so crazy."

John snorted. "That's because it is crazy."

Sam flinched and Dean softened his voice, trying to calm him. "The demon is messing with you, Sammy. That's all it is."

"No, Dean," Sam said, worn through with fear and grief. "The demon blood isn't all of it. Dad – he's planning to kill me."

That statement shocked Dean even more than the demon blood. "Sam, Dad would never hurt you."

"That's what I thought." Sam looked bleakly at his father. "Then I found his journal."

John flinched, not daring to look at his eldest.

"A journal?" Dean asked, baffled.

"I found it in his truck, last night, before he left." Sam dug into his pants pocket, took out a small brown notebook and tossed it to his brother.

Dean snagged it in mid-air, looking at it curiously.

John kept his eyes on his youngest son. On the gun.

"Read the last entry," Sam said.

Dean thumbed it open and leafed through it. He read the final entry, looked at his father in disbelief. "Dad?"

John looked stonily at his lieutenant. "Dean, you have to understand. This isn't something I want to do. Sam is my son. I love him, just as much as I love you."

"Yeah, right." Sam's voice was a ragged sob. "God, I hate you for this. Why couldn't you believe in me? Why couldn't you – " He stopped, trying to collect himself. After a moment, "I have two choices. Leave, or die."

Dean stiffened. "Sam . . . "

"It's been bad for a long time, worse than you know." Sam tried to smile, failed miserably. "No matter what I do, it's never good enough. He's always watching me, waiting for – I don't even know what."

His voice was raw with pain, with the need to be believed. "I would never let myself be used by the demon, no matter what Dad thinks."

"I know you wouldn't." Dean took one step forward, then another. He was within a foot of his brother now.

"Dean, I swear I wouldn't," Sam repeated desperately.

"Sammy, stop," Dean said gently. "I know that. I raised you." He held out his hand. "Give me the gun, little brother."

Sam looked hesitantly down at the gun, then back at Dean.

Dean, the one constant in his life. The one who'd raised him, taken care of him.

Dean, whose love he'd never doubted, but who always followed their father's orders without question.

Would he stand between Sam and danger now?

John's eyes were intent on his sons, waiting for his chance.

His father thought that Dean would back him.

And maybe he would.

He knew only one thing for sure. If Dean could betray him, Sam wanted to be dead anyway.

With a shuddering sigh, he gave Dean the gun.


	2. Chapter 2

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John surged up off the couch, eyes blazing with triumph.

That lasted just long enough for Dean to swing around and stick the gun, still cocked, into his father's face. "You fucking son-of-a-bitch! You were going to kill him?"

Looking into his son's furious eyes, John realized he'd seriously misjudged the situation. "Dean, if we don't take care of this now –"

"This? Take care of this?" Dean was nearly incandescent with rage. "This is my brother, you fuck!"

"And he's my son." John's eyes moved to Sam, then back to Dean, deliberately ignoring the gun. "But if we don't end this, the demon will turn him. He'll kill you and me and then he'll move on to the rest of the damned world –"

There was a sharp gasp, then quick footsteps and the sound of the front door opening.

"Hold it, Sam!" Dean said sharply.

"Dean." Sam clung to the doorknob, half a heartbeat away from bolting. "I think maybe –"

Dean didn't dare take his eyes away from his father. "Shut the door!"

Sam pulled in a breath through uncooperative lungs. "But Dad –"

"Don't you listen to his shit, Sammy." Dean took a quick half step to the left to keep both father and brother in view. "Shut the damned door. Please."

Sam did so and then took a few uncertain steps back to his brother.

"You okay, kid?" Dean asked, taking a quick glance at Sam's pale face.

Sam nodded jerkily. "I don't want to hurt you, Dean."

"You won't." Dean was calm again. "Now, I need you to go upstairs and pack my stuff."

John made a quick, abortive movement, stilled when Dean jerked the barrel of the gun warningly at him.

"Pack?" Sam asked.

"Pack. Then go put our stuff in the car."

Sam looked towards his duffel, then back at his brother, eyes widening with the beginnings of hope. "Dean, are we –"

Dean reached out his free hand, gave his brother's shoulder a brief, comforting squeeze. "Hurry up."

Sam nodded and, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste, ran for the stairs.

"Sam, wait."

Sam glanced back over his shoulder.

"I'm gonna need some rope," Dean said evenly.

"'kay, Dean." One quick nervous look at his glowering father and Sam ran up the stairs without another word.

Neither man spoke for a long, tension-fraught minute.

"The end of the world, Dean," John bit out at last. "Can you live with that?"

Dean listened to the sound of his little brother on the floor above and gave his father a smirk.

"Fuck the world." He waved John back to the couch and stood over him, but not too close.

"Don't be a fool! What the hell do you think you can do?" John argued.

"We'll go someplace the demon can't find us. If he can't find Sam, his plans don't mean shit."

John scoffed. "You heard Sam, Dean. The demon comes to him in his dreams! How can you fight that?"

"I don't know, but I'll find a way!"

"Yeah, good luck with that," John said derisively.

Dean fought to control himself, furious at the seeming ease with which John was giving up on his youngest son. "Damn it, did you even freaking try?"

John looked away.

When he turned back, his face was cold and hard. "I tried. There's no other way. He's demon spawn. He can't be saved."

"Dad, for as long as I can remember you've said that family is the most important thing," Dean protested. "Hell, the only important thing! And now, just because some dickhead demon has plans for Sam, you're ready to dump him?"

"Sam's not family, Dean," John said flatly. "He never was."

Dean heard a small, pained sound and looked to see Sam stalled halfway down the stairs, arms full of their belongings. By the look on his face, Dean knew his brother had heard their father's rejection.

Flushing, Sam stammered, "I – I forgot something. I'll be right back." Without waiting for an answer, he turned and went quickly back upstairs, disappearing into their Dad's room.

Dean glared at John. "You dick."

John bristled. "Don't talk to me like that."

"I didn't talk to my dad like that," Dean's tone was contemptuous. "I don't know who you are."

A strange light dawned on John's face. "You don't know what you're doing, Dean. He's put some kind of spell on you."

Dean squinted at him. "Are you serious?"

"Dean, you have to fight it," John said vehemently. "Before he comes downstairs, give me the gun, quick, and –"

"Dad, just stop. Jesus, do you know him at all? Do you know me?" Dean shook his head in disbelief. "We're leaving, Dad."

"Dean, you can't! That thing isn't your brother!"

"Shut up, Dad," Dean said warningly.

John lost it.

Not only was that damned demon's whelp slipping through his fingers, he was going to lose his one true son to damnation!

No!

John jumped to his feet.

"God damn it!" He roared. "I should have killed the little bastard when he was born, before he infected you with his poison. Before he killed his mother!"

Snake-swift, Dean slammed the gun hard into the side of his father's head, dropping him unconscious and bleeding to the floor. He stared down at him, breathing hard. "I guess you'll shut up now."

A minute later, Sam clattered back downstairs, Dean's duffel hanging over one shoulder and his arms full of gear, including the sawed-off shotgun, several boxes of cartridges and a small metal box.

After one startled look at his father's unconscious form, Sam didn't look at him again, but handed a length of rope to his older brother.

"Good job, Sammy." Dean said. "Got your knife?"

Sam made a face. "Duh."

"Bitch." Dean grinned and gave Sam the keys to the Impala. "Load her up and then take care of the truck's tires. I'll be out in a couple minutes."

When Dean came out of the house, John's truck was sitting on four rapidly deflating tires. The Impala was idling beside it, Sam waiting anxiously in the front seat.

Dean slid into the driver's seat. "You ready?"

Sam slid over and hugged him tightly. "I'm sorry, Dean."

Dean hugged him back, relieved beyond measure that his brother was still alive. "No need, Sammy. Whatever that asshole demon did, it's not your fault."

"No, sorry I tried to run. I should've come to you."

"Damn right you should've come to me," Dean agreed. "Listen, man, we're good. But don't do it again, okay, or I'll kick your scrawny ass."

"Okay." Sam smiled, then his face clouded over. "He's going to follow us."

"Not for a while, he's not," Dean said matter-of-factly. "Hog-tied the crazy bastard."

Sam laughed, then looked a little horrified at himself.

Dean rubbed Sam's hair playfully, then guided the Impala out of the driveway and onto the street, pushing the big car into passing traffic.

Sighing, Sam leaned his head back on the seat and closed his eyes, feeling empty of everything but vast relief and a deep contentment.

After a time, he looked over at his brother. "Where are we going?"

Dean didn't take his eyes off the road, just smiled slightly. "Does it matter?"

Sam's yawned and Dean laughed.

"Get some sleep, kiddo. We'll stop in a couple of hours for some food."

ΩΩΩ

Dean drove, letting Baby's familiar rhythms sink soothingly into him.

Sam fell asleep after just a few minutes, head resting on Dean's shoulder, Dean's arm around him.

With his brother asleep, Dean let his mind go back to his Dad, who was more than likely loose and throwing out lines everywhere to try and pull them back in.

This whole shitstorm was Dean's fault.

How the freaking hell had he missed his dad going bat shit crazy? Granted, his dad spent a lot of time on the road and he was never a big talker but fuck!

What could have happened to change his father so much, to make the man that Dean had worshipped his entire life, want to kill Sam?

Did it in fact go all the way back to when Mom died?

It was true that he'd had changed after the fire. Dean had watched it happen. John had gone from a strong and basically peace-loving family man to a man completely obsessed with finding, and destroying, the creature that had destroyed his life.

But surely that was normal?

Seeing a loved one not just die, but cut open and burned to death. And then to find out that the monsters and creepy crawlies of humanity's nightmares were real and basically out to get you?

That would change anyone.

But enough to make him believe that killing his son was not only necessary, but reasonable?

It was crazy. Just – damn, crazy.

And Sam. He must have been plenty messed up the last few weeks, with the demon hijacking his head. How the hell had Dean missed that?

Sure, he'd noticed that Sam was a little quieter than usual, but he'd thought it was just his little brother being his usual moody, teenage self.

He huffed out an angry breath. Jesus fucking Christ, he'd nearly gotten his brother killed.

Guilt and anger sizzled along his nerves and his arm tightened around Sam, who stirred and looked up at him, still half-asleep. "Dean? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Dean tried to shake off the pall of the last few miles' introspection. "Nothing. Close your eyes, little brother. Go back to sleep."

Sam smiled drowsily and wrapped a skinny arm tightly around Dean's middle. "Okay." He closed his eyes, and his breathing returned almost immediately to the symmetry of sleep.

Dean dropped a soft kiss on the top of his brother's shaggy head and then put his attention back on the road, back on the list of endless possibilities and problems before them.

Not the least of them the fact that he might have to kill his father in order to protect his brother.


	3. Chapter 3

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There was sand everywhere.

Back seat, front seat, glove box. Hell, the trunk of the car was saturated with the stuff, along with an assortment of rocks and shells which Sam had gathered, and Dean fervently hoped held no living occupants.

Add to that the taffy and fast food wrappers littering the floor, the seagull poop on the roof of the car and the seaweed tied rakishly to the radio antenna, the Impala was probably dirtier now than in the entire time since she'd come off the production line.

Dean had never loved her more.

In the seat beside him, Sam's face was flushed red from the afternoon's sun, bits of sand and salt peppering his tanned body. His grin was wide and happy.

"That was awesome, Dean!" he shouted happily over the radio's screaming guitar. "Can we go back sometime?"

"Sure!" Dean grinned at him. "Why the hell not?"

Sam whooped. "Great! Hey, listen, let's stop, get something to eat. I'm starving!"

Dean looked at him incredulously. "You just had three hotdogs, fries, hell, half my fries, a corndog and a fried candy bar. How the hell can you still be hungry?"

"That was hours ago!" Sam retorted. "Besides, I didn't eat the corndog. I dropped it in the sand and a gull got it." He opened his eyes wide and directed a pleading look at his helpless brother.

"Dean . . ."

"Okay, okay," Dean surrendered. "Put those away, will you? We'll stop at the next place we see."

Cackling in triumph, Sam settled back in his seat, unwrapped another piece of taffy and popped it into his mouth and Dean put his full attention back on the road, fingers lightly tapping the steering wheel in time to the music.

It had been four weeks since they'd left their father.

Things were good. Much better than Dean had expected. The tension that Sam had worn for so long was starting to leave him. He still had his dark moments - always would - but he was starting to look, and act, more like the 15-year-old he actually was.

A 15-year-old with a genius brain, phenomenal hunting skills and a little problem with demon blood, but still, a kid.

Aside from not hunting, it wasn't even like their lives had changed all that much. They still spent the majority of their days on the road, but not too long in any one place and they were very careful to stay away from the places they knew hunters frequented.

Most nights they were tucked into the Impala. Once in a while they found an abandoned house that wasn't too rank. And a few times they'd even splurged on a relatively cheap motel room.

The real difference was John's absence.

That single factor, much as Dean hated to admit it, made all the difference in the world. And not just for Sam, for him as well. He didn't have to worry about breaking up arguments between his father and brother, didn't have to watch Sam go pale after one of John's cutting remarks or slam into the bedroom and not talk to anyone for days at a time.

He didn't have to worry about his father killing his brother. Yet.

The idyll couldn't last much longer, he knew that. John was hunting them. The demon, too. And while he hadn't showed up in any of Sam's dreams since they'd left John, it was a safe bet he'd be back eventually.

Luckily, Dean had an idea on that subject.

He'd thought first of going to Pastor Jim, or maybe Caleb. They'd help for sure. Problem is, John would know that, so they'd be the first ones he'd call. If he knew Jim or Caleb were sheltering them, he'd be all over them.

So, no Jim or Caleb, though the thought of being cut off from men who were basically family made Dean's heart hurt.

No, he thought it would probably have to be Bobby Singer.

They hadn't seen him in years – not since his last blow-up with John - but John had dumped them on the older hunter lots of times when he didn't want to take them on some hunt or other.

Sam had loved staying with the old man. So had Dean. After all, what's not to love about getting three square meals a day? What's not to freaking love about being warm and not having to worry about the cops or CPS showing up and dragging your ass away?

Just as important, Bobby had spent time with them. He'd played catch with Dean in the scrapyard, taken them hunting - he'd even taken both boys to a baseball game in Sioux Falls.

And Sam – what was the name of Bobby's old dog? Sam had loved him. He'd followed Sam everywhere. It had broken the poor kid's heart when John said they wouldn't be going back.

Yeah, so. Bobby.

He'd need to talk it over with Sam. Theirs was a partnership, after all, not Dad's dictatorship. He wanted to wait just a little bit longer, though, let Sam have a little more fun. "Real" life hadn't been kind to his brother. Dean wanted to keep it away from him, for just a little longer.

"Hey!" Beside him, Sam straightened up and pointed to a sign on the side of the road. "McDonald's!"

Then another sign appeared and Dean said excitedly, "Cracker Barrel!"

Sam made a face. "McDonald's has better fries."

Slapping on the turn signal, Dean moved to the right lane, preparing to exit the highway. "Uh uh. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy. Cracker Barrel."

"Dean –"

"Pie, Sammy," Dean said, eyes getting dreamy. "They got all kinds of pie."

Sam snickered.

"What?" Dean said defensively.

"The last time you had that look in your eyes you were on your way out to get laid."

Dean shrugged. "Pie, Sammy. Pie. That's all I gotta say."

ΩΩΩ

An hour later Dean burped delicately and pushed back his empty plate. "Man. I'm about ready to explode."

Sam nodded in agreement. His fork was laid neatly next to his plate, although the plate itself still held half a piece of cherry pie.

"You're not gonna finish that?" Dean asked hopefully.

"Nah." Sam looked a little queasy at the thought. "Too full."

"Good." Without hesitation, Dean pulled Sam's plate over to his side of the table.

"What happened to you being about to explode?"

"You can never have too much pie, Sammy. Besides, waste not, want not, and all that crap." Dean dug in.

"Yeah, well, if you puke, I'm not cleaning it up." Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then stood. "I'm gonna hit the bathroom."

Dean looked up at him, then toward the entrance to the men's room, in clear sight of their table. "'kay."

Dean managed to finish the pie without exploding. He didn't pay too much attention to the hubbub of voices around him in the busy restaurant; just kept one eye on their buxom waitress and the other on the men's room.

Several minutes passed. He was just starting to think about using the restroom himself (i.e., check on Sam) when its door opened and Sam came out, a newspaper in his hand. He stood there for a few moments, looking a little distracted, then saw Dean watching and came back to their table.

"What's up?" Dean asked as a tight-lipped Sam sank onto his chair.

Sam shoved the wrinkled newspaper across the table. "I found this in the john."

"What, no toilet paper?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Ew, Dean. Just – ew." He jabbed a finger at an article on the bottom of the front page.

When Dean finished reading the circled article on the front page, there was a delighted gleam in his eyes. "Dude. Zombies."

"Could be ghouls," Sam cautioned him.

"Nah. Zombies." Dean grinned, already anticipating the thwack of the machete and the dull thud of zombie heads hitting the ground, then his face sobered and he looked at Sam, who read his face easily and sighed.

"Dean, I'm fine. Seriously. We gotta take care of this. San Diego's not so far. We haven't been hunting lately, but if we don't look into this and something happens. . ." He trailed off, looking unhappy.

Dean leaned over. "No sweat, Sammy. I get it. You're right. We'll take a look."

Sam huffed out a relieved breath and took back the newspaper, going over the details of the article that had caught his attention.

"Besides," Dean went on. "Just because Dad's being a dick doesn't mean we can't still help people."

"Thanks, Dean."

"Uh huh. Don't thank me. I'm not Dad. We're partners. I got your back, you got mine."

"Partners," Sam echoed, grinning.

"Partners, except since I'm older, it's 60/40, not 50/50."

Sam opened his mouth to object, then caught the teasing look in Dean's eyes. "Ass."

Dean hesitated, then said, "Listen, I've been thinking. After we check out this thing in San Diego, maybe we should head over to South Dakota."

Sam stared at him blankly for a moment, then it clicked. "Bobby Singer?"

"He's been around forever, he might be able to help us with, um, the dreams." Demon wasn't a word to be thrown around as lightly as "zombie".

"Do you think he would?" Sam said hopefully.

"No way to be sure, but – yeah, I think he will. We won't take any chances, though. He's not gonna know we're coming until we get there. That way he can't give Dad a heads up."

Sam scoffed. "Ha! I don't know if Bobby will help us or not, but I know he won't call Dad. Remember the last time we were at his place?"

They both grinned at the memory of their father being escorted off of Bobby Singer's property at the end of a shotgun.

"We won't take any chances, though. Either one of us gets a bad vibe, we're outta there."

"Yeah." Sam fiddled with his empty water glass. "So, I guess vacation time is over!" He couldn't help feeling a little wistful

"Oh, hell, no!" Dean objected, horrified. "The beach will still be there when we're done chopping zombies."

A young boy, probably about five, was passing their table. At the "Z" word he stopped and stared with wide startled eyes.

Dean waggled his eyebrows teasingly at him. After a moment, the boy smiled and went on his way.

"Gotta say, I love a good hunt." Dean admitted. "I've been missing it, a little."

Sam's face was expressionless. He didn't miss hunting. At all. While he was committed to doing what needed to be done, nothing said fear like seeing his brother splayed out torn and bloody on a motel room bed because their father wouldn't risk taking him to a hospital.

Dean kicked him lightly under the table. "Nothing says we have to hunt 24/7. We can hunt, take a day or two to rest up, socialize –" He eyed their waitress as she wriggled past and raised a significant eyebrow at Sam.

Sam blushed. "Dean, knock it off."

"Ah, come on, Sammy. Eventually you're gonna have to lighten up and lose that cherry." Dean leaned back in his chair, stretching luxuriously.

Irritated, Sam considered him for a moment, then, "You remember a few months ago, in Cedar Rapids, I was going to the library after school almost every day?"

Dean thought back. "Yeah, I think so. Some kind of science project. Why?"

Sam gave his older brother a look chockful of meaning.

The penny dropped. Dean sat straight up.

"No – freaking – way," he said loudly, drawing stares from the tables around them. "Dude!"

Sam smiled smugly, very satisfied at having kept this huge secret from his big brother as long as he had.

"You sneaky fucker!" Dean shook his head in amazement. "Who was it, that little blonde, um, what was her name. Vicky?"

Sam said nothing.

"Yeah, okay, keep that to yourself, Sam." Dean chuckled, delighted. "Damn. You the man!"

Sam couldn't quite hide his pride at the accolade. Then their waitress came up to the table and Sam looked at Dean, silently begging him not to say anything more.

"You two need anything else? More pie?" She directed a smile and an arched eyebrow at Dean.

"No, thanks." Dean rose from the table, practically thrumming with excitement. "We got work to do."


	4. Chapter 4

Sam squinted through the moonlit night. "Ha!" he hissed in triumph. "I told you. They're not zombies. They're ghouls!"

"Doesn't matter." Dean scowled, hands tightening on the shotgun. 'Head shots and decapitation still works."

They watched as the tainted creatures, four in number, walked slowly through the silent cemetery.

"That explains how they've been able to keep hidden, though," Sam said. "Ghouls are a lot smarter than zombies."

"Not so damned smart." Dean's eyes were intent on their targets. "If they'd filled in the graves after they ate, we wouldn't be here."

Sam shrugged. "Guess so."

The small knot of ghouls advanced through the cemetery. They could have been any group of mourners out to visit their loved ones, if it weren't for the lateness of the hour and what looked suspiciously like blood on their clothing.

Dean grimaced. "Looks like this isn't their first stop."

They watched the ghouls advance.

"Formaldehyde can get you high," Sam said unexpectedly after a couple of quiet minutes.

"Dude, you are such a freaking geek." Dean laughed quietly. Then the sense of Sam's words sank in and he glared at his little brother.

"Hold on, how the hell do you know that?"

Sam motioned frantically for Dean to keep his voice down. "A guy at school tried to sell me a joint last year. It was laced with formaldehyde."

Dean stared at him, hard.

"Dean, it's not like I tried it," Sam said, exasperated.

Dean lowered his death glare to Def Con 3. "Damned right you didn't try it. Kick your ass."

Sam turned away with a shrug, knowing he should've just kept his mouth shut. This was why he hadn't told Dean about it back in school. That dealer would've been lucky to make it out alive from an encounter with Sam's watchdog.

"Whatever. Anyway, it gets you high, but it also destroys brain cells. In humans, at least. Don't know what it would do to ghouls."

Dean mulled it over for a minute, then cracked a nasty grin. "Maybe these freaks like it. Maybe it's like ketchup, or tabasco sauce. Spices up the meat."

"The meat? Jeez, Dean!"

"Hey, it's not my meat." Cackling, Dean stiffened and nudged Sam, nodding toward the ghouls who had stopped at a newly-filled grave. Piled high with flowers, the grave rested barely three hundred yards away from the two hunters.

"Let's wait. Take 'em by surprise, while they're eating."

Sam pulled a face but nodded, and they watched as the ghouls pushed the mass of flowers to the edges of the grave and started digging into the loose earth with their hands.

It took a while. The occasional sound of voices reached from the grave to the boys and twice what looked like a scuffle spilled out of the deepening hole. Eventually, however, it settled down to the sounds of steady, motivated digging.

Finally, there was a loud crack and the boys stiffened.

The grave robbers had reached the coffin.

After a minute or so, three of the four ghouls crawled up out of the grave, clothing caked and stiff with dirt. The one still inside the hole passed a limp, white-gowned corpse up to its comrades and then jumped out to join them.

The things stood silent for a moment, staring down at the tumbled corpse, then knelt down and in seconds its clothing had been removed and cast aside. They started to feed.

ΩΩΩ

Whatever his sins, John Winchester had taught his sons how to fight, how to survive. His teachings and discipline, the hours of training, were so deep-rooted as to pass for DNA imperative.

Sam was good; even at fifteen he was hard to beat. But Dean? He was a natural.

No matter what John tossed at him, he took it, said thank you, and asked for more. He threw himself headfirst into battle, any battle, no matter how high the odds, trusting his father and brother to back him up and even more than that bedrock faith, trusting himself to bring them all through safely.

That being said, decapitation is elemental. You don't have to plan ahead. There's no need to worry about whether you need silver bullets, or iron. There's no need to think at all. All you need is a long knife and the willingness to get up close and bloody.

Up close and bloody was made for Dean.

The ghouls didn't stand a chance.

"Dean, behind you!"

Adrenaline blazing through him, Dean whirled, swinging his blade and separating the last ghoul's head from its shoulders. It flew a good fifteen feet before it fell to the grass and rolled.

Face alight with glee, he grinned at his little brother.

"Fucking awesome, Sammy!"

Sam, soaked with the blood of his kills, scowled. "Why didn't you use the shotgun?"

"You know me, Sammy." Dean hefted his blade. "This is more fun!" Action over, adrenaline seeping away, he hawked harshly and spat on the ground. "God, I hate this state."

Sam wiped the bloody sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "You love the beach," he argued half-heartedly.

"Yeah, well, this ain't the beach," Dean retorted. "It's too damned hot. And muggy. It's like breathing soup!" He stretched out his shoulders, grimacing. "I almost dislocated my shoulder on that first one. Big bastard."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch." Sam wiped the blade of his machete on the patchy grass. "At least there weren't too many of them."

"Yeah." Dean frowned, looking at the corpses surrounding them. "You know, I was kind of expecting more than four, with the amount of damage they've been doing. I mean, seriously, how many bodies can four freaks eat?"

Sam thought about it, pulling out a couple of bottles of water out of his pack and passing one to his brother. "Think we missed some?"

Dean drained half the bottle in one gulp. "Think we better make sure."

There was the rumble of an engine in the near distance. The brothers looked at the bodies surrounding them, then at each other.

"You gotta be kiddin' me!" Dean groaned. "Who the hell comes out to a cemetery this time of night?"

"Cops?" Sam said, face anxious.

"Shit!"

They dropped their machetes to the ground and started dragging corpses and heads to the open grave, hoping to get everything under cover before whomever it was showed up, Dean muttering savage curses the whole time.

Suddenly, screeching brakes and a pair of terrified screams tore through the air.

Both boys froze, staring at each other in dismay, knowing exactly what those screams meant. Snatching up their blades from the grass, they pelted toward bloody murder.

They were way too late. When they hit the cemetery's parking lot, it was all over but the feeding.

A lime-green Datsun idled in the lot, its front wheels canted up over the curb onto the grass. Music spilled out from the open doors. Several feet away from it, a group of five blood-smeared ghouls crouched over the bodies of two teens, both of them so mangled and torn they couldn't be anything but dead.

Face twisted in rage, Dean pulled the sawed-off shotgun from the sling on his back and took out one of the feeding monsters with a head shot before the other four even looked up from their messy meal.

In that same heartbeat, Sam lunged forward and took the bewigged head of an old woman with a blood-stained mouth and rabid eyes.

Then the other three monsters were up and charging at them, mouths gaping, their howls of rage mocking the earlier screams of their victims.

Dean took the head of a third ghoul with the second barrel of his shotgun. Then, grim-faced, he dropped the shotgun, raised his machete and charged, Sam beside him, into a close-quarter blood scrimmage.

It was over in seconds.

The fourth ghoul, a cornrowed teen, sank to his knees, severed neck spurting blood and soaking Sam to the skin. The last, a rail-thin woman, tried to grapple with Dean, screaming in pain as his machete's downward stroke chopped her arm off at the shoulder. The battle ended as a second blow sent her head bouncing off across the parking lot.

Wild-eyed and panting, the brothers stood surrounded by the dead, both human and ghoul.

Dean stumbled over to the slaughtered teens, a bloody mess of flesh, blood and bone. "Fuck!" He whirled and kicked at one of the ghouls, then the rage drained out of him and his shoulders slumped. "Fuck."

"We didn't know," Sam said numbly.

Dean rubbed a weary hand across his face, doing more to smear the blood around than to wipe any of it off. "Sammy –"

"We didn't know," Sam repeated. He looked at the death surrounding them, then down at the blood soaking his clothing. His stomach rolled. He clamped his lips shut. We didn't know.

Hearts and souls reeling, the two boys stood together, trying to pull enough oxygen out of the muggy, death-soaked air to breathe. Trying to gather the energy, body and spirit, to finish the night's work.

It wasn't a propitious beginning to their new life. They had done everything right, everything they could, with the information they had. The damned Winchester bad luck had simply stuck in its two cents again and these two kids had paid the tab.

ΩΩΩ

Driving back to the motel they'd checked into earlier that day, the car was silent, that silence heavy with the weight of the night's horror.

The boys felt no triumph over destroying the ghouls. They'd taken vengeance upon the monsters, yes, and the creatures would take no more lives, but that meant exactly nothing when compared to the loss of the two innocents.

There'd been no time to grieve in the aftermath of the horror. Silence-bound, they'd loaded the bodies – human and monster - into the teens' Datsun and, using an old access road, had driven their gruesome cargo back into the undeveloped area of the cemetery.

There they burned it – the car, the ghouls, the kids. Burned it all.

There was no choice. The ashes of the murderers and the murdered would fall together. Any evidence as to their manner of death would be destroyed. The night's events would remain a mystery, a horror that would haunt this small town for years, and the kids' families, forever.

Once they were back at the motel, they managed to get into their room without anyone seeing them. That was the one plus of the night. Anyone seeing their blood-soaked clothing wouldn't have hesitated to call the police.

Dean took the first shower without argument or conversation. Sam sat on the bed furthest from the door, trying not to think about the brutal night's work, trying not to think at all.

He was still sitting there when Dean came out of the bathroom, a thin motel towel slung around his hips. "Your turn," he said tersely.

Sam didn't move, didn't look at him.

Dean didn't press it. Going to his duffel he pulled out fresh clothing and dressed quickly, taking an occasional glance at his brother, who was still sitting on the bed, staring blankly ahead.

"Sam, you need to get washed up."

Still no response.

Dean went to him, put a hand on his shoulder. "Sam."

The younger boy looked up at him, the surprise on his face making it clear he hadn't been aware of his brother's presence in the room.

"You need to clean up." He pulled Sam to his feet. "Go on."

It took a moment for Sam to connect the dots, then he nodded.

"Put our stuff in a pillowcase or something when you're done, okay, Sammy? We'll get rid of them in the morning."

Sam looked down at himself and a shudder crawled over him. He hurried into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Dean stood still in the center of the room, listening. After a minute or so the shower went on and he heard the jangle of shower curtain rings as Sam shoved them aside and climbed into the tub.

Relieved, Dean looked around for the T.V. remote. Finding it, he turned on the aged set and lay down on his bed, flipping idly through the channels.

After a few minutes, a noise caught him and his heart clenched painfully in his chest.

It was the sound of Sam's agonized, muted sobs filtering through the bathroom door.


	5. Chapter 5

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They drove, leaving the shattered little town far behind them, but the ugly fate of the two teens never quite left them. Dean, in particular, picked at the wound, unable to rid himself of the suspicion that their father would have handled the hunt differently. Better.

However, after a couple of months, the passage of time managed to dull it to more of a sharp ache than a soul-shattering debility. Neither of them considered not hunting. The thought of how many more people would die if they stopped put it in the "Hell, no" category, no matter how they'd screwed up that night in the cemetery.

One night after kicking a fairly harmless ghost out of a haunted house, they were spending the evening at a local watering hole decimating a couple of double cheeseburgers and fries while Sam searched through the online news sites looking for another hunt.

"Here's one," he said finally, satisfied. "Cicero, Illinois. Looks like a poltergeist."

"Cicero?" Dean popped another fry into his mouth, frowning. "Where the hell is that?"

Sam pulled out the Rand-McNally and pored over a map of Illinois. "About 35 miles outside of Chicago." He quirked an eyebrow at his brother. "What is that, about fourteen hours from here?"

"More or less," Dean shrugged. His eyes went back to the waitress working the other side of the room. She was a tall, rangy blond with an impressive swing to her hips. Damn, he thought, licking the salt off his lips. She would be a sweet ride.

As if feeling his eyes on her, she glanced over her shoulder and flashed a mischievous grin at him, then turned back to her customer, her tight behind giving him a little wiggling salute.

"Okay, then." Sam stood up, stuffing his laptop and assorted research materials back into his pack. "You ready to go?"

When Dean didn't answer, Sam followed his brother's gaze to the waitress. He rolled his eyes, just about to make a crack about Dean thinking with his upstairs brain for a change, then stopped, reconsidering.

It had been a rough couple of months. They'd been going nonstop for weeks. Dean could use a little distraction. And he could use some sleep.

"Hey, listen." Sam's tone was just a little too offhand. "Think we could spend the night here, get started in the morning?"

Dean turned back to him. "What? Why?"

"Well, there's no big rush to get to Illinois, is there?" Sam rushed on. "Nobody's dying and I could use a good night's sleep. In a bed," he clarified.

"I dunno." Dean looked back at the waitress, then back to Sam, frowning a little. "You okay?"

"I'm fine." Sam couldn't help darting a quick glance at the waitress.

Dean grinned. "Thanks, Sammy."

"For what?" Sam gave his brother a playful poke. "Just go to her place, okay? I am not sleeping in the Impala tonight."

ΩΩΩ

Sam was feeling a little high at the thought of the hot shower in front of him and the twelve or so hours of uninterrupted sleep he was going to indulge in.

Pulling a clean t-shirt and sweat pants out of his pack, he went into the bathroom. He turned the water on as hot as it would go, then stripped and climbed into the shower, luxuriating in the hot water as it ran over his head and cascaded down his back.

He'd lied to Dean, of course. He wasn't fine. Hadn't been for a while. But then, Dean wasn't either. That was par for the course. Winchesters never admitted to being anything other than fine. It was a necessity, because they spent so much time not being fine, if they ever admitted to it, they'd soon be spending all their time bitching about it.

The Winchester credo, now and forever: Shut up and suck it up.

So, no. They weren't fine.

But they would be.

The water was lukewarm when he finally turned it off. Feeling boneless and sleepy, he'd climbed into his sleep clothes and was combing out his thick, dark hair when he heard the squeak of floorboards from the other room. The bathroom doorknob rattled.

"Dean?" Sam's grin was teasing. "Dude! Don't tell me you struck out!"

Dean didn't answer and Sam's smile faded.

"Dean?"

The doorknob rattled again. He heard a soft laugh.

"Come on out, Sam."

Not Dean.

He looked around the windowless room. His cell phone, and his gun, were in the other room.

The doorknob rattled again.

"Come on out, boy or we're comin' in!" It was a different voice.

At least two, then.

Swiftly, Sam knelt and fumbled through the pile of discarded clothes on the floor. With a sigh of relief, he pulled the knife from the sheath on his belt and slid it into the top of his pants at the back.

"Sam, get your ass out here!" The voice was harsh, thick with menace. "Won't say it again!"

Steeling himself, Sam opened the door and stood in the open doorway, staring with narrowed eyes at his unexpected guests.

Hunters. Unmistakably hunters. Two big men, both dressed in rough jeans, boots and flannel, the bigger one heavily bearded. Positioned to block him from escaping the room, both were armed and stank of whiskey and violence.

The clean-shaven man was swaying drunkenly as he surveyed Sam. "Well, well. Little Sam Winchester. Come to town to get drunk and laid and just look what we find." He gave his companion a sloppy grin. "Told you it was their car, Frank."

The other man didn't answer, just nodded and ran a cold stare over Sam's slim frame.

Sam, exquisitely aware of the comforting weight of the knife at his back, didn't look toward his bed, where his gun lay under the pillow. "Who are you?"

"I'm Jack. That's Frank. He's not a big talker." He raised a small bottle of whiskey, toasted Sam, and took a healthy swig. "We're friends of your dad."

Sam stiffened, knew they'd noticed. "My dad's not here."

"Oh, hell, we know that!" Jack nudged Frank, laughing. "Not yet, anyway."

Sam paled. Shit.

"Your daddy told us you boys ran off, asked us to keep an eye out." Jack snickered, licked his lips. "See, John - he wants your brother back."

"Dad sent you to get Dean?" Confused, Sam looked from one to the other. "There's no way Dean's going anywhere with you."

"Nah. See, John just figures with you gone, your brother'll go back to him." Jack laughed at the dawning horror in Sam's eyes. "Your daddy wants us to take care of you."

The words took a few seconds to sink in, then a wave of suffocating heat raced over him. "Dean won't go back to him, no matter what you do to me," he managed.

"Oh, hell, we don't give a shit about that." Jack took a couple of steps to the right. The bigger man moved to the left.

Sam backed up a little, trying to keep them both positioned in front.

"Thing is," Jack leered, "I owe your daddy. I take care of you, that goes away."

If my dad wants me dead, what are you waiting for? A shiver ran over Sam and a dreadful suspicion grew, fueled by the hungry way they were looking at him. "What do you want?"

"Nothing you ain't already giving away. Your daddy told us about you and your brother." Jack grinned and nudged his partner again. "Incest. Pretty kinky, even for a hunter."

Frank grunted, his eyes hot.

"I ain't never fucked a demon before." Jack continued. "How 'bout you, Frank?"

The big man shook his head. "Not a boy."

"My dad told you that me and Dean . . ." Sam was unable to finish.

Jack snickered. "Hell, kid, don't sweat it. We don't care. It's not like you're human."

"He ain't human," Frank agreed. "But he'll do." His gaze went up and down Sam's frame again, lingered on his mouth.

Jack was bad enough. At the look in Frank's eyes, a frisson of cold horror slithered up Sam's spine. He took a stumbling step backward before he could stop himself.

"My dad's a lying sack of shit," he said, unable to hide the fear in his voice.

"Listen to the mouth on him." Jack snickered again, clearing enjoying Sam's fear. "And just look at those pretty eyes."

"No matter what my dad told you about me, he doesn't want you to -"

"John knows me pretty well, and he didn't tell me not to. That's permission in my book." Jack drained the last of his bottle, tossed it onto the floor. "Sam, that mouth of yours is about making me crazy. Tell you what, you come with us, do what we tell you - we won't even kill you! How's that for a deal?"

"I'm not going anywhere with you!" Sam's voice rose. He fought to keep calm, knowing that if he lost control, he was dead.

Jack gave an excited giggle. "Oh, you're comin' all right. One way or the other."

Frank broke in. "We don't have all night, Jack. Let's get the kid in the truck before his brother comes back."

Sam saw his death in their eyes. Worse, he saw rape and prolonged torture. He could probably make it back into the bathroom, gain a little time, but if Dean came back, these guys would kill him. They'd have to. No way Dean would let them take Sam.

He couldn't let that happen. He'd rather die than see Dean hurt.

But not their way. Better to die here, now.

Jack lurched drunkenly forward. "Come on, pretty, time to go."

Sam hit him in the mouth with a hard right, sending him staggering back against Frank. The big man pushed his friend away with an impatient curse and an uneasy glance at the door. "C'mon, Jack, stop messin' around!"

"Chill, Frank." Jack touched his mouth and, amazingly, laughed again. "This is gonna be fun."

"You're taking too goddamned long!" Frank insisted. "Let's just shoot him and get out of here." He pulled his gun and tried to push past his inebriated partner.

Jack shoved him back. "Oh, hell no! I want my fuck!" He turned back to Sam. His grin was a whole lotta crazy. "You're coming with me, Sam, hard or easy. Take your pick."

Heart pounding in his throat, scared to death, determined not to sell his life cheaply, Sam spat out, "Hard, asshole!"

"Good choice!" Jack lunged at Sam.

One chance.

Choose.

Without hesitation, Sam pulled his knife out from behind him and sank it into his attacker's chest, shuddering as he felt it skate along the man's ribs before finding a path through to his heart.

Jack gave a horrible, gurgling cry which ended almost before it began. Face slack with shocked surprise, he crumpled to the floor, pulling Sam with him.

"Jack!" Frank's cry was anguished. After a frozen moment, he charged forward, hard hands sinking into Sam's arms, pulling him off his partner's bloody corpse.

"You bastard!" He threw Sam against the wall and Sam slid down it to the floor, blinking dazedly.

There was a loud hammering on the wall and an angry voice from next door. "Quiet down, assholes, or I'm callin' the cops!"

Either not hearing the shout or not giving a shit, Frank bent over Sam and jerked him back up. "I'm gonna fuckin' kill you."

Sam twisted away from him, his shirt tearing, and lunged for his bed. He reached under the pillow for the gun but Frank grabbed him by the back of the neck and jerked him back, slamming him down onto the floor next to Jack.

Sam tried to scramble away. Frank caught him by the leg and pulled him back. He punched Sam in the face, twice, slamming his head against the floor. Stunned, Sam lay still for a moment.

"Goddamned demon! Should've killed you the minute we saw you!" Frank looked to the side at his dead partner. His face twisted with a fresh influx of grief and rage. "Damn it!" Eyes insane, his hands closed around Sam's throat. "I'll fucking kill you now!"

He was strong, much stronger than Sam. Sam tore at the hands around his throat, bucked up at him, tried to use what little strength he had left to throw the man off, to buy more time, more life. The maddened hunter just growled and squeezed harder.

Desperate for air, vision starting to grey out, Sam swung his arm in a wild roundhouse, hitting Frank hard on the ear. The man loosened his hold just enough for Sam to take one precious gulp of air, then the big man swore and resettled his hands on Sam's throat.

Gurgling, Sam flung his arms out, hands grasping, grabbing, pleading. One hand smacked against Jack's corpse and the sheath on his belt. A tiny spark of hope sent his hand fumbling at it, tearing at it. He ripped the knife free, swung the blade up -

Dean!


	6. Chapter 6

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Sex in a storeroom wasn't Dean's usual choice, but it beat the hell out of no sex at all. Plus, he had to admit, knowing the woman's boyfriend was out in the bar playing pool had added a certain amount of, um, spice to the situation.

And it had had the added advantage of getting him back to the motel early so he could grab some Z's before he and Sam hit the road in the morning.

Yup, definitely a win/win.

Even though it was a early night for him, it was apparently pretty late for everyone else. The motel parking lot was quiet, no one in sight, and only a couple of rooms showed light behind their curtains.

Dean frowned when he saw the beat-up pickup parked in the space in front of his and Sam's room, but with a shrug he pulled into the empty space next to the truck and headed to his room, already yawning.

His yawn cut off at the door. It wasn't locked. Hell, it wasn't even latched! The hair rose on the back of his neck and his hand went swiftly to his gun, easing it from his belt. No way would Sam have left their door unsecured. Looking warily behind him, he tried to peer in through the window of their room, but the curtains were drawn tight.

With a quick promise to himself to kick his brother's ass if he found him sleeping, wanting to find Sam sleeping, Dean shoved the door open, moving in and quickly to the side, gun ready.

The reek of death and blood greeted him and Dean's heart almost stopped when he saw Sam lying still and silent on the floor, a big, roughly-dressed man slumped on top of him. The man had a knife stuck deep into the side of his throat and he was very clearly dead.

Just beyond them lay another man, arms flung wide and dead eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling.

Dean swallowed hard. "Sam?"

No answer.

Dread clutching at him with icy fingers, he closed the door and moved quickly to muscle the big man off of his brother's motionless form.

Sam's face was slack and white, his t-shirt soaked through with blood. His arms, throat, even his face were scarlet-splashed. Dean didn't see any obvious wounds on him, other than some ugly bruising around his throat, so maybe all the blood belonged to the stranger. There was so much, though - the knife must have slashed the man's jugular and he'd bled out.

Hand shaking, Dean checked Sam's throat, searching for a pulse. He blew out a profound sigh of relief when he found it.

At Dean's touch, Sam groaned and drew in a short, rasping breath. Slowly opening his eyes, he blinked up at his brother. "Dean? What – what's happening?" His voice was jagged, croaking. "What –" Wincing at the pain in his throat, he struggled to raise himself to his elbows and gasped at a sharp assault from his ribs.

"Easy, Sammy." Dean helped him into a sitting position, which brought another sharp gasp of pain. "Take it easy, you're pretty banged up."

Sam leaned against him, panting, every part of him hurting. "I don't –" His throat closed up and he croaked, "What happened?"

"Hell, I don't know, you tell me." Dean was doing his best to stay calm, but shit! "You were lying on the floor when I got here." He motioned to the bodies on either side of Sam. "Along with a couple of fucking dead guys!"

"Dead?" Sam looked around him, eyes widening at the carnage. "I don't -"

You come on out or we're coming in!

Sam shuddered violently as the memory of the night's terror blew in at him. He felt sick, soul-violated. Breath accelerating, he could feel the knife as he plunged it into Jack's chest. He could see the look in Frank's eyes, inches away from his own as the man lay dying, breathing his last breath into Sam's ebbing consciousness.

"Sammy? Hey, come on, calm down, it's okay. It's over." Anxious eyes fixed on Sam's bloody, distraught face, Dean stroked his dark hair until he calmed a little. Then, because he had to get them both out of this freaking slaughterhouse, he said, "We have to get out of here before the cops show, Sam. I'm gonna take our gear out to the car, then I'll be back in for you."

"No!" Sam's grip tightened on Dean's jacket as a laughing voice filled his ears.

I ain't never fucked a demon before . . .

Dean could feel the violent trembling in Sam's body; knew how close the kid was to losing it. He hated to push him, but this had to have been a loud freaking fight and he couldn't think of many things worse than being found in a blood-soaked room with two dead men.

"Come on, Sammy, let go." Dean gently but firmly loosened Sam's grasp on his jacket. "I need you to be strong for just a little longer. Can you do that?"

Sam shook his head stubbornly. "Get me up!"

Dean fought down his impatience, lost seconds ticking loudly away in his head. "Sam, I'll just be a minute –"

"I can't stay on the floor with them!" Sam's eyes fell on Dean's jacket. Bloody handprints covered the front of it.

Uncomprehending, he looked at his hands and with a sharp gasp jerked back from Dean, shell-shocked gaze tracking down his own blood-soaked body.

God, it was obscene, the stuff of nightmares. Blood-soaked to the wrists and beyond, arms red-brown and sticky, almost all the way up to his shoulders. His clothes, soaked beyond restoration. And the smell - thick and sick, copper and rot.

He felt sick. Taking an iron grip on himself, Sam said again, "Get me up."

Dean nodded, understanding now, and steadied his brother as he clambered to his feet and stood swaying, fists tightly clenched at his sides.

"Dad's coming," Sam said.

Dean's face paled and he looked around involuntarily. "What?"

"He sent them," Sam said flatly. "He sent them to kill me."

Even knowing what Dad had planned for Sam before they ran, Dean couldn't believe it. "Sam, no –"

"They told me!" Another wave of sickness rolled through him. "God, I've got to get this off me!" Gagging, he staggered to the bathroom, pulled off his shirt and pants, and climbed into the shower.

Dean wanted to follow Sam, argue with him, prove, somehow, that John could have had nothing to do with these two killers. But now wasn't the time. Besides, he had the feeling it was going to be a losing argument.

Going to Sam's duffel, he pulled out fresh clothing and took it into the bathroom. Then he started a very sketchy clean-up.

A couple minutes later Sam came out of the bathroom, clean clothes pulled onto his still wet body, hair slicked back from his face.

Dean was waiting. The two dead men were nowhere in sight. A blanket lay on top of the blood-soaked rug, a temporary cloak against discovery.

"Where. . .?" Sam looked around the room, then followed his brother's gaze to the heel of a boot sticking out from under Dean's bed. Moving quickly, he crossed and kicked the recalcitrant boot further under.

"Anything left in the bathroom?" Dean asked.

Sam looked down at the bloody clothing in his hands. "No, we're good." He grabbed a pillowcase from the bed and stuffed the stinking mess in, then picked up his gun and stuck it into his belt. Pulled on his boots. "Let's go."

"Sam –"

Sam's face was set, bloodless. "Not now." He hefted his duffel up and went for the door, brushing past Dean without meeting his eyes.

Dean made a final sweep of the room. As he left the room, he put the "Do not Disturb" sign on the doorknob. That would buy them some time, at least until checkout.

Sam was waiting in the Impala, eyes closed and head back against the headrest. Dean hesitated, then went to the interloping pickup. It was unlocked. He searched the front quickly but there wasn't much. Empty beer cans and a few crumpled McDonald's wrappers on the floor; a collection of worn maps and a half-empty box of ammunition in the glove box.

Shutting the truck's door quietly, he slid easily into the Impala. Before he could speak, Sam whispered hoarsely, "Let's go. I'm okay. We need to go."

Before the cops showed.

Before John -

Unable to stop himself, Dean laid a tentative hand on Sam's arm. Then he started the Impala and guided her into the quiet night.

ΩΩΩ

John Winchester watched broodingly as the steady stream of cops and crime scene techs filtered in and out of the motel room; watched as two heavy body bags were eventually hauled out, dumped into a coroner's wagon, and driven away.

Dark eyes hard, he considered his options.

Follow the wagon and try to get access to the morgue as law enforcement?

He hadn't shaved in days, hadn't bathed much either. As rough as he looked, odds weren't good they'd buy him as law enforcement or F.B.I., and he didn't have the time, or the patience, to clean up and go in later.

He needed to know, now, if Dean was alive, or dead.

So - pump the local yokels?

That works.

He locked his handgun in the glove box of the truck, combed greasy black hair back from his face with his fingers, and then ambled casually over to the small knot of women hovering uneasily in front of the motel manager's office.

"Morning," he greeted the group.

They all gave him very subdued nods, except for one, a thickset woman, probably somewhere in her fifties. A maid by the faded uniform, she was practically vibrating with excitement.

Bingo.

"What's going on?" John asked her.

"Murder!" She wasn't even trying to hide her relish at the dramatic break in her day.

John managed to summon a shocked look. "No kidding!"

She nodded vigorously. "When I went in to clean up this morning, I found them, two of them, stabbed to death. There was blood everywhere!"

One of the other women made a small, distressed sound and disappeared into the office.

"That's horrible," John tried to be sympathetic, though she clearly didn't need it. "Who were they?"

"All we know is they aren't the same two that rented the room." She nodded at a thin young woman in the back of the group. "Sherry was on the desk when they checked in. The cops made her look at them to see if she could identify them. Right, Sherry?" When the young woman wasn't quick to answer, she prodded her impatiently. "Sherry?"

Sherry nodded unwillingly. "I've never seen them before." She hesitated, then burst out, "Patty, I can't believe it was those two boys who did this. They were so - so nice."

"So nice-looking, you mean," Patty said mockingly.

Sherry flushed and looked down. John saw that Patty had hit the nail square on the head.

Patty smirked. "I saw them before I left last night, just for a second." She shook a chiding finger at the mortified girl. "Good looks don't mean a damn thing when it comes to murder. Just look at that bastard Ted Bundy. Good-looking man and a total psycho."

"Probably possessed," John murmured abstractedly.

Patty frowned. "Excuse me?"

He looked back at her innocently. "Hmm?"

It seemed to finally occur to her to wonder what he was doing there. "You looking for a room?"

John shook his head and left them with no further conversation. There was no point in hanging around. His boys were long gone.

Sitting in his truck, he pulled out a map and studied it. Where the hell had they gone? He didn't even have a direction. They could be anywhere by now.

Damn Jack anyway. Give the man a simple job and he not only screws it up, but gets himself killed doing it. Dumb shit.

More than likely he'd taken one look at Sam and let his dick do his thinking for him.

Ah, well. He'd known that was a risk. But sometimes you have to use the tools you have, and those two had been the only hunters in reach he'd known wouldn't flinch at killing a kid.

Some hunters might have balked at killing Sam at all since, technically, he hadn't done anything wrong, yet.

His last conversation with Bobby Singer had been a heads-up in that particular direction. An unmistakable warning to be more careful when choosing his allies. Damned old fool.

Clearly, spending so much time with Sam when the boy was growing up had turned Singer's brain. He'd be no help at all. He might even shelter the boys.

John considered that.

All right. He'd sniff around, see what he could dig up. When he found their trail, if it led anywhere near the Dakotas, he'd pay a visit to the old man and teach him not to meddle in John Winchester's affairs.

And then he'd find Sam and take care of him, once and for all. He'd already lost his wife to this blasted demon-spawn. Damned if he'd lose his one true son.


	7. Chapter 7

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Life goes on.

Dean needed sleep. Food. A damned drink.

He needed to get his brother into a bed and dose him up with painkillers. Needed to call Bobby, let him know what was going on, get a definite read on whether they could count on the old man for help.

Most of all, he needed to find out exactly what had happened last night, what had been said, and done, by Sam's would-be murderers, and what John had had to do with it.

Sam made a small snuffling sound beside him and shifted uncomfortably in his seat before sinking back down into a sketchy sleep, his face pressed against the passenger window.

Dean was glad his brother was able to have this little bit of escape. He'd been dozing on and off since they'd slammed out of Motel Hell, but even with the shock and exhaustion of what had happened, it was more off than on.

Sam. God, Sam.

Dean's eyes blurred and his breath gave a little hitch.

No.

Sam was alive. That was all that mattered right now.

Later, he would find out what had happened in that motel room.

He would find out exactly how their father had been involved. He would find a way out of this, and he would deal with John.

Later.

For now, he just wanted to get as many miles as he could between them and the shit storm behind them.

A couple of hard hours later, when they came as close as spit to a head-on collision with a semi outside Ellisville, Mississippi, Sam called a halt to their wild flight.

They parked the Impala behind the Ellisville Motel 6 where they hoped it would be relatively safe from passing eyes. Dean got Sam into the room and onto one of the beds, hauled in what they needed from the car, and then put down salt lines and wards around the perimeter of the room.

When he was finished, he started a second check of the salt lines and wards, just to be sure.

It was busywork. The lines were fine. Sam knew it. Hell, Dean knew it, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

Finally, when Dean started to go over the salt lines a third time, a hollow-eyed Sam said wearily, "Cut it out. They're fine."

Too tired to argue, Dean sat awkwardly down on the bed beside his brother. "You should sleep."

Sam shifted and winced. "I can't. I'm too – I'm too tired."

Dean felt Sam's forehead. It was cool, no sign of fever. "You want something to eat?"

Sam shook his head. Tired eyes drifted across the room to the silent television.

Dean snatched up the remote from the bedside table. "You want some T.V.?"

Sam gave a little nod of acquiescence and Dean flipped on the set.

For a time then, there was no sound beyond that of the television and an occasional voice or engine from outside.

With Sam's eyes safely on the television, Dean furtively studied his brother's face; the vivid, purpling bruises, the cut and swollen lips, the ugly thumb-shaped smudges around his neck.

Sam sent him an unhappy glance. "Cut it out."

Dean, shoulders slumped and face glum, fingers picking at his jeans, was the very picture of dejection. "I shouldn't have left you alone, Sammy."

"I knew you were thinking something stupid like that," Sam groaned. "How the hell could you have known about those two?"

"I should've known it wasn't safe," Dean said bitterly. "I should have figured he'd have people watching for us."

"So, what, you're going to stay with me every minute of every day?" Sam protested. "You think that's gonna work?"

Dean had no answer for that. But damn it, he'd known John would try something at some point and if he hadn't been thinking with his dick, he'd have been there when that scum showed up.

"Dean, don't." Sam grabbed Dean's hand and tugged him down to lay beside him. Yesterday's shock and exhaustion had him close to tears. "Don't let him do that to you."

The bed felt amazing. Dean nodded tiredly. Yawning, he pressed his face into the side of his brother's neck.

They were both asleep in moments.

ΩΩΩ

Life goes on.

The next morning, cell phone plastered against his ear, Dean ran a nervous hand through his short hair. "Yeah, I got it. Man, I'm sorry, Bobby."

"Not your fault your dad's bat shit crazy," the older man answered sensibly. "Just give it a little time. These yahoos'll get bored and start looking somewhere else pretty soon. I'll call."

Dean blew out a sigh of relief. "Thanks," he said simply.

"We done now?" Bobby asked. "Cause I don't know about you, but I got work to do."

"Sure, Bobby. Listen - be careful, okay?"

Bobby snorted. "Don't worry 'bout me. I'll be fine. Tell your brother I said hey. And you two boys watch your asses." There was a loud click as he disconnected.

Tossing his cell phone onto the table, Dean let out a heart-felt, "Crap!"

"What's wrong?" Sam called from the bathroom.

"Bobby says someone's watching his place."

There was a short silence. "Do you think it's Dad?"

"Bobby says no. Probably someone he sent, though."

"Oh."

"You almost done in there?"

"Yeah, just a minute, jeez."

His own nerves still raw from the day before, knowing his brother was probably feeling the same, Dean pushed aside his own irritation and poked his head into the bathroom.

Hair damp from the shower, a threadbare towel hanging loosely about his slim hips, Sam was studying himself closely in the mirror. "Dude!" he said irritably. "Privacy!"

"You kidding?" Dean shrugged. "Next time lock the door." He walked up behind Sam and looked into the mirror. "Nope, you're still not as pretty as me."

Sam rolled his eyes and walked out of the bathroom, Dean trailing after. "You okay?"

"I'm fine." Sam dropped his towel to the floor and started to dress.

"You hurting? How are your ribs?"

"Dean, I said I'm fine."

"Sam, come on," Dean scoffed. "Who do you think you're talking to? I know you. What's going on? We said no secrets, right?"

Sam sighed at the bulldog expression on his brother's face. "I was just wondering if it shows."

"Does what show?"

"The demon blood," Sam answered reluctantly.

"What?"

"I can't see it. I look like me. I feel like me." Sam saw the stricken look on Dean's face. "I'm sorry. It's just - I don't understand; Dad's known about the demon blood for years. What made him decide to kill me now?"

"Sam," Dean said helplessly, "There's nothing wrong with you! Just because some asshole demon fed you a few drops of blood fifteen years ago -"

"Then what made Dad send those guys?" Sam demanded. "What made him -" he bit his lip.

"What?"

"Forget it. " Jeans on, Sam picked up his shirt. "We should get going."

"No. Uh uh." Dean took Sam's shirt away from him. "Talk."

"Nothing." Sam snatched futilely at the shirt. "Come on, I'm just - I'm just trying to figure it out."

Guided by instinct and long years of experience in spotting Sam's tells (overly casual stance, eyes that met his way too readily), Dean said, "You can't figure out crazy, Sam. That's why they call it crazy. Quit stalling."

Sam tried to lighten the mood. "You're actually asking for a chick flick moment?"

Dean scowled and gestured impatiently.

"It's just - we don't know what the deal with the demon blood was. We know it was supposed to get me ready to be in his demon army, but what did it do to me? There has to be something we haven't seen yet. Something wrong." He looked nervously at Dean and then away. "Something wrong with me."

"Oh." Hell. "Don't worry, Sammy. Whatever that bastard has planned for you, it's not gonna happen." Dean tried a reassuring grin though he wasn't really feeling it. "Not while you got me looking out for you."

"But -" Sam wanted to believe Dean, badly, but there were so many unknown variables. "Dean, it could be bad. Really bad. It might be something so bad that" - just say it - "what if I change? What if I'm not me anymore?"

"Sam –" Dean paused, trying to choose his words carefully. "Let's not worry about what if's right now. Let's let's just deal with what's on the table right now."

Sam started to protest and Dean cut him off.

"There's no way to get ready for what could happen. All that's gonna do is drive us both crazy and Dad's already got that covered." He took Sam by the shoulders, wanting to make sure his brother got this. "We take it as it comes. The only thing that matters is that we got each other's back. Okay?"

After a few seconds Sam nodded.

Dean studied him assessingly. "There's something else."

Sam looked away, face flushing.

"Did something happen you haven't told me about?" Dean sounded a little impatient to himself and he tried to soften his tone. "Something about yesterday?"

At Sam's reluctant nod, Dean's hands tightened on his brother's shoulders. "Sam, please. Let's finish this. Just say it."

Sam's words were barely audible. "They tried to rape me."

Dean's hands dropped to his sides and he watched, eyes wide and stunned, as Sam went to the window and looked into the parking lot outside. It took everything he had to wait for his brother to come out with it. Every part of him wanted to grab Sam and shake the truth out of him, find out exactly what those sons of bitches had done.

Fuck!

He was going back to that crap town, bring those bastards back to life and kill them all over again!

"They didn't," Sam said finally. "But they were going to."

Dean waited, barely breathing.

"I couldn't believe it was happening, at first," Sam went on, eyes dark with pain and remembering. "It didn't seem real, but – they were gonna take me away and kill me someplace else. They said Dad thought that when I was gone you'd go back to him."

Rage thrummed in Dean's veins. "Dad thought wrong."

"I told them that. They didn't care. Jack owed Dad money. If they - took care of me, the debt was cancelled. So. When Jack came at me, I killed him." He stumbled a little over the words.

"Then what?" Dean prompted after a minute. "The other guy went for you?"

"Yeah. He - Jack was crazy drunk, but Frank - I couldn't get away. He was too strong. I tried, I really did." Sam was talking faster and faster. "I had to - they were going to take me and fuck me and kill me and you'd never have known what happened. I had to!"

"Sam- "

"I had to kill them! But there's a part of me that thinks killing them makes me what Dad says I am. A monster." Sam hesitated, said it. "Maybe I should've just died, like he wants me to."

"Sam -"

"What happens if I change and I'm not me anymore?" He finally voiced his deepest fear. "I don't want you to have to kill me."

"That's not gonna happen." Dean pulled Sam into his arms and hugged him fiercely, hugged him as hard as he could. "That'll never happen."

Sam leaned against him, trembling. "Dean . . . "

Sam shuddered.

Dean held tight. "Tell me."

"They said it would be fun to fuck a demon," Sam whispered. "And Dad - Jack said that Dad knew what they were gonna do."

Sam's whispered words shuffled around inside Dean's head, not making any sense at all. When they at last settled into a recognizable pattern, he said disbelievingly, "Dad knew?"

Sam said nothing, just nodded, watching him fearfully.

Dean drew in a painful, ragged breath, then blew it slowly out.

It was kind of funny.

He'd thought that his heart had been broken when he learned that his father was planning to kill Sam, but he'd been dead wrong.

It was breaking right now.


	8. Chapter 8

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Kubrick dropped his cigarette to the mud and ground it out. "How long we got to stay out here anyway?"

"Long as it takes." Gordon stared toward the distant house where, although it was well past midnight, Bobby Singer was still up, judging by the number of lights still on.

"What makes Winchester think his kids are gonna show up here?" Kubrick asked.

"A man knows his own sons."

"I guess." Kubrick rubbed his hands together. "Shit, it's freezing!"

Gordon directed a steely look at him, regretting, not for the first time, bringing Kubrick in on the job. He'd have been better off on his own.

"Listen, why don't we go into town, have a drink?"

Kubrick said it as though it were a marvelous, completely new idea, when it was in fact the third time he'd made the suggestion in the last hour.

"No," Gordon said, trying to hold on to his temper.

"We could get something to eat," Kubrick persisted, not noticing the tension in his partner's voice. "Come on, man, we don't have to stay. We can bring back a bottle -"

Furious, Gordon wheeled to face him. "I said fucking no!"

Startled, Kubrick shrank back against the car. "Chill, man, chill! What's the problem?"

"My problem," Gordon snapped, trying to keep his voice down, "is that you don't know when to be quiet! You're going to get us killed!"

Kubrick blinked at him. "He's just one old man. We can handle him."

Gordon looked at him disbelievingly. "Are you stupid? Have you met Singer?"

Kubrick shook his head, looking confused.

"Talk to Rufus Turner sometime. Bobby Singer – that old man – is one of the toughest sons of bitches around and I don't want him out here."

"Then you shouldn't have brought Chatty Cathy with you, asshole."

Both men spun and then froze. A little gasp of alarm escaped Kubrick.

Bobby Singer stood on the other side of the clearing. When the men moved to face him, he racked his shotgun. That bowel-loosening sound was accompanied by a low growl from the Rottweiler that glowered menacingly at his side.

"Walker," Bobby said with a scowl. "Figures John would send you. You're as bat shit crazy as he is."

Gordon's jaw tightened but he didn't rise to the insult. "Where's the boy, Singer?"

Bobby snorted. "You're kidding, right?"

"He's a demon. Why are you protecting him?" Gordon said, stalling.

"He's not a demon," Bobby said coldly. "He's not evil. You're the evil one, Walker, even thinking about going after a kid." He jerked his head toward their car. "Get off my property."

"Sure, no problem!" Kubrick said, his voice almost a squeak. He started to open the door of the car, but Gordon shot him a hard look and he froze, looking back and forth between his partner, the shotgun and the hulking dog.

Gordon looked back at Bobby. "I'm not going anywhere. Not until we've taken care of that boy."

Bobby's eyes narrowed at that. "Oh, I think you'll go." His finger caressed the trigger of the shotgun. "This ain't rock salt I'm packin'."

Gordon took an involuntary step forward, coming to an abrupt halt when the dog rumbled.

Bobby's mouth quirked, amused. "Nice to see you got some sense."

Gordon clenched his fists, trying to keep from leaping for the old man's throat, knowing full well Singer would blow him away. "You're making a mistake."

"They're mine to make." Bobby set his shoulders. "Last chance. Go."

Though he'd almost rather die than give in, Gordon tore his gaze away from the old man and walked slowly to the car. Kubrick was already inside, staring out at him with wide eyes.

"Walker." Bobby said.

Gordon stopped. He didn't look back, just waited.

"Don't come back." Bobby's voice was ice. "Next time I see you, I won't bother with a warning."

Gordon didn't trust himself to answer. He climbed into the car, slammed the door shut and reached for the key and in a moment the car was pulling back out onto the dirt road that led to the highway.

Bobby patted the big dog on the head. When the taillights had disappeared into the dark, he started back toward the house, the Rottweiler close at his heels.

"I probably should've just shot him," he said sourly to the dog. "That bastard's gonna be trouble."

ΩΩΩ

Three miles down the deserted highway, Gordon pulled the car abruptly to the side of the road and turned to glare at his partner. "Get out."

Kubrick goggled at him. "Wha -?"

"Get – out."

Kubrick looked out the window. Nothing out there but the night. "Why?"

"Because you almost got me shot!" Gordon roared. "Now get out of the goddamned car!"

"But it's my car!" Kubrick protested.

Gordon reached under the seat and pulled out his big .44. "Out."

Kubrick fumbled the door open and scrambled out. "Can I at least have –"

Gordon reached into the backseat, grabbed Kubrick's worn backpack and threw it out after him. "Shut the door, asshole."

The man obeyed and Gordon drove away.

Alone, Kubrick looked around, shivering.

There was nothing out here. Nothing but a lot of dark. No houses, no cars, not even any damned moon to light his way. So unless he wanted to head back to Singer's place - and no way did he want to risk running into that dog again - he was stuck walking the ten miles into town.

Damn him anyway for hooking up with Gordon in the first place! He'd known it was a mistake, but hadn't been able to resist the reward money Winchester was offering.

Still, money or not, he should have known it would all turn to shit. Hell, he couldn't even call the cops to report his car stolen 'cause his cell phone was in the glove box of the car!

An owl hooted at him from a nearby tree and Kubrick sighed.

It was just as well he didn't have his phone. He'd rather not have his ex-partner pissed off at him any more than he already was, because that old man had been right.

Gordon was kinda crazy.

Resigned to sore feet and a long night, Kubrick started down the road.

ΩΩΩ

Sam couldn't sleep.

He turned over again, onto his back, trying not to make too much noise. Just because he couldn't sleep didn't mean Dean shouldn't be able to. He had the strong suspicion there was some serious sleep deprivation in their future. Best if Dean banked a little now while he could.

Sam knew why he couldn't sleep, of course. He'd broken his promise to Dean, their promise to each other.

No secrets.

He'd told Dean that Dad had sent Jack and Frank. He'd told him they'd tried to rape him and that their father had given his tacit permission.

So why hadn't he told his brother that his father was spreading the word they were - what? Lovers? Fucking?

Was that so much worse than all the other bullshit?

Yeah, it was.

A car door slammed in the parking lot outside. Sam listened, eyes intent.

Footsteps and the whimper of a child, a woman's comforting voice, footsteps receding and then the slam of a door.

Sam relaxed, then Dean wuffled in his sleep and he started guiltily.

He hadn't told him yet because, well, how the hell do you say something like that? It made him sick just thinking about it. It was just so –wrong.

"Ah, come on, Sammy, lighten up!"

Sam bolted upright, staring in shock at the man who had appeared at the foot of his bed, yellow eyes blazing in a tan, weathered face.

Demon!

Sam threw himself out of bed and lunged across to Dean, shaking his shoulder frantically. "Dean! Wake up! Dean!"

Dean didn't wake, didn't so much as twitch. He just slept on, a small, peaceful smile on his face.

Fear almost choking him, Sam put himself between Dean and the demon. "What did you do to him?" he demanded.

"Sam." The demon looked a little disappointed in him. "Think."

Clamping down on the urge to grab the useless gun under his pillow and start shooting, Sam tried to think past the adrenaline sizzling through his system.

In the end, of course, it wasn't too complicated. "I'm dreaming," he said flatly.

"Eh, comme si comme ca." The demon waggled his hand back and forth. "Kinda half and half. But if I'd tried this while you two were awake, I'd probably end up killing him and I don't want to do that. Right now he's the only thing standing between you and a bullet to the head."

Sam flinched and the demon flashed a grin.

"Nothing like a father's love, eh Sammy?" His laugh was obscene. "Gotta admit, John really surprised me with that whole, uh, brotherly love thing."

"Did you have something special you wanted to say," Sam said through gritted teeth. "Or did you just want to screw with me?"

The smile dropped off the demon's face.

"Damned right I've got something to say. Your old man is coming for you, soon. Stop messing around and kill him. I've got plans for you and they don't include you being murdered by that nut job."

Plans?

"What plans?"

"That's not what you want to focus on right now," the demon admonished him. "Try to keep your eye on the ball. Just remember what I said. The next time John shows his face, shoot it."

"He's my father."

"Maybe someone should remind him of that," the demon said. He made as if to go, then turned back. "Oh, and thanks for sending Jack and Frank downstairs. You'll be happy to know they're paying for their little, um, indiscretion."

"What?" Sam felt sick.

"I saw what those two had planned for you." He gestured to Dean, a cruel glint in his eyes. "Even if you'd lived through it, I doubt your brother would have survived letting it happen."

ΩΩΩ

Dean woke.

Stretching out, enjoying the luxurious crackle of joints and tendons, he glanced over at Sam's bed and went still when he saw the empty bed.

Not yet too alarmed, he sat up, looking around.

The motel room was empty but for him, the bathroom dark. Craning to see the digital clock on the bedside table – 7:16 a.m. – he saw a note with Sam's familiar scrawl propped up against the lamp.

Gone for breakfast. Back soon.

Dean relaxed. The café was right across the street, maybe thirty seconds away. Even Sam couldn't get into trouble on that walk.

Turning over onto his side, he snuggled back down into the covers. He knew he should get up and shower, so they could get on the road right after breakfast, but –

Should could go screw itself.

He was just drifting back to sleep when the door knob rattled and Sam walked in, carrying a couple of amazingly fragrant bags.

He grinned when he saw Dean still in bed and nudged the door closed with his hip.

"Hey. Come on, get up." He dumped the bags onto the table and started pulling out Styrofoam containers. "I brought French toast. And strawberry syrup."

Dean poked his nose out from under the covers and sniffed, then pulled it back in.

"Oh, and hash browns," Sam went on, pulling out plastic utensils. "And, uh, scrambled eggs. And bacon."

With a defeated groan, Dean threw back the covers.

ΩΩΩ

Forty-five minutes later, happily replete, he leaned back in his chair and gave a large, wet burp.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Classy, Dean."

Dean reached out and yanked his hair and Sam smacked his hand away, scowling. "Dude. You got syrup all over my hair."

"So take a shower. Don't be such a princess." Dean wiped the grease and syrup from his hands and tossed the crumpled napkin on the table. "So," he said, eying his brother. "Last time you brought home this much food, you'd scratched the Impala's fender. I know you didn't drive to the café, so what's up?"

Sam's scowl faded. He picked up the piece of bacon lying deserted on his plate and held it out. "Sure you don't want something else to eat first?"

Dean's eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, tension already replacing his breakfast endorphins. "Spill."

Sam wanted, badly, to look away from his brother's eyes. He didn't.

"Yellow Eyes is back."

"What?"

The volume of Dean's roar was impressive.

Sam managed not to flinch but Dean knew him pretty well. With an apologetic grimace, he said, "Sorry. I just – damn it. What happened, did the fucker brace you while you were out getting breakfast?"

"If he had, I don't know if I'd have been able to get back here," Sam said shortly. "No, it was last night. While we slept."

"Crap." Dean digested that.

Sam nodded. "First time since we left Dad."

"What'd he say?"

"That we should have killed Dad." Sam shrugged. "He's pissed that we didn't because he has –" He made derisive little quote marks in the air – "plans for me."

"Hell." Dean slumped back in his chair. "Hell. I was hoping –"

"That it was over? Yeah."

The two sat silent.

"I don't know what to do," Sam said finally. "I don't like him poking into my head whenever he feels like it. I need to find a way to block him, fight him. Something." His forehead creased into a worried frown. "Dean, if he can get inside my head, he might be able to find out where we are."

"I don't think he wants to hurt you," Dean said. "He's spending a lot of time making sure you stay alive."

"I'm not worried about me." Sam hesitated, then, "That's not all,"

"Oh, great." Dean asked apprehensively. "What?"

"He knew what happened with those two hunters," Sam said reluctantly, the words bitter in his mouth. "He said they're – down there."

Dean didn't understand at first, then it clicked and his green eyes widened comically. "Whoa. Fuck."

"Yeah."

"You think he was just screwing with you?"

"Nope. I'm pretty sure they're both burning in hell right now."

"Jesus." Dean was a little pale. He got up from the table and started to nervously pace the room. "I don't - give me a straight fight and I'll do my best to kick its ass, but - this shit is way over my pay grade." He shot a look at Sam. "But - I don't feel too bad for those two douchebags. They got what they deserved."

Sam had nothing to say to that. They'd been bad men, the worst, but he wasn't sure anyone deserved what they were going through right now.

"I was thinking," he said tentatively. "Maybe there's some kind of protection spell or charm that'll keep the demon out. Bobby said it's not safe to come to his place, but maybe it's worth the risk. He knows a lot about this kind of stuff, a hell of a lot more than Dad."

Dean looked dubious.

"And even if he doesn't have an answer," Sam continued, "maybe he can point us in the right direction.

Dean wanted to go. They could damn sure use some help. But if there were eyes on Bobby's place, it was probably the stupidest thing they could do.

"I guess we could call. That should be safe enough." He saw the disappointment on Sam's face. "Sam, it's not –"

"I know." Sam gave him a lopsided grin that mostly worked. "It's just – it would be good to see a familiar face. One that's not trying to kill me."

"I know." Dean gripped Sam by the shoulder and squeezed comfortingly. "I'll talk to Bobby. See what he says."

OOOOOOOOOO

Gordon Walker hid his stolen car in a copse of trees about three miles from Bobby's house, then hiked back in the middle of a misty rain, supplies for a week's stay in his backpack and a .300 Win Mag in his hands.

Careful to stay upwind so the old man's dog wouldn't catch his scent, he made his way into the scrap yard and secreted himself in the back seat of a beat-up Honda Civic that had a clear view of the house

Hungry, he ate a few pieces of Kentucky Fried and a couple of their biscuits, which he loved. He was careful to wrap up the detritus in a tightly sealed plastic bag, just in case Singer's dog was a fan of the Colonel.

Then, stomach quiet, mind calm and rifle loaded, he settled in to wait.


	9. Chapter 9

((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

"Dean, it's not a good idea to come here, not right now," Bobby said emphatically.

Dean flicked a glance at Sam, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed next to him, listening. "I know, Bobby, but -"

"Do you know Gordon Walker?"

"I don't know him, but I know who he is," Dean answered, brow creased. "He's a hunter. Dad told me about him."

"Yeah and a damned good one," Bobby growled. "I threw him and his partner off my property a couple nights ago. They're hunting Sam."

"Dad said the guy's a whack job," Dean protested. "He won't even hunt with him!"

"Not many people will. He doesn't care who gets hurt. Or killed," Bobby said flatly. "There's nothing he won't do to finish a job. I heard he killed his own sister when she was turned by vamps a few years ago."

The two boys looked at each other, dismayed.

"Great. Just - fuckin' great." Dean rubbed wearily at the ache between his eyes. "It's not bad enough Dad sends a couple of rapists after Sam. Now he's sending a damned homicidal maniac?"

"What?" Bobby's voice rose to a screech. "He did what?"

"What the hell, Dean!" Sam's astonishment turned quickly to anger. He bounced up from the bed and stomped furiously toward the door. "Thanks a lot!'

"Sam - shit! Sam, stay here!" Dropping the phone on the bed, Dean caught his brother at the open door and jerked him back, slamming the door shut. "Damn it, stay inside!"

Breathing hard, Sam shoved him. "Asshole!"

Dean shoved him back and the two squared off, fists clenched, glaring angrily at each other.

"Boys?" Bobby's voice echoed from the cell phone lying deserted on the bed. "Dean? Dean!"

The two boys stared at each other for a moment longer, then Dean huffed out a breath and raised his hands in surrender. Going back to the bed, he grabbed up the cell. "Sorry, Bobby."

"What the hell did your idiot father do? Is Sam okay? Are you okay?"

"He's fine, Bobby," Dean reassured him. "We're fine."

"What happened?"

Dean glanced at his brother, still glowering by the door. "Not now, Bobby. Okay?" he said in a low voice.

There was silence for a moment on Bobby's end and then the old man said tightly, "I'm gonna want to hear about this later."

Dean murmured an assent.

After a tense moment, Bobby said, "I haven't seen Walker since I ran him off, but I'm sure he'll be back sooner or later."

"Perfect goddamned timing," Dean said. He was silent for a moment, thinking. "You got any ideas that can help us keep this bastard out of Sammy's head?"

"Gimme a minute."

Bobby put the phone down on the other end and Dean heard the sound of his footsteps receding. With a sigh, he looked at Sam. "I'm sorry, man," he said apologetically. "I wasn't thinking."

Sam's voice was tight, hard. "I don't want him thinking about that when he looks at me."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"It's bad enough that –" Sam broke off, cursing himself. He was not getting into that whole incest thing with Dean, not right now.

"What?"

Sam shook his head. "Nothing. It's just – all this bullshit."

Dean nodded, understanding, he thought, and the two waited for Bobby's return to the line.

"Dean, you there?" Bobby's voice rang jarringly in the quiet room.

"Yeah, we're here."

"I got an idea," Bobby said. "I know a psychic name of Pamela Barnes, a couple states over. She might be able to help."

"A psychic?" Dean said it as if the word tasted bad.

"Well, seems to me it's a matter of Sam being able to shield himself," Bobby said logically. "And a good psychic has to be able to shield, otherwise they'll have people tripping in and out of their head all day long."

Sam said slowly, "That makes sense, I guess."

"I don't know . . ." Dean's voice trailed off. "How do we know if –"

"She's the real deal," Bobby interrupted. "I wouldn't send you to her if she weren't. Anyway, I called her but she wasn't there. I'll try again in a couple hours, and get back to you after."

Thought he was more than a little doubtful, Dean felt the hard knot in his chest ease, just a bit. At least it was something. "Thanks, Bobby."

"Yeah, well, don't throw me any parades just yet. Wait till we see what she says." Bobby cleared his throat, then said gruffly, "Sam, you okay?"

"I'm fine, Bobby," Sam said stiffly. "Don't worry."

"Yeah, right." Bobby snorted. "Listen, I'll call back in a few hours. In the meantime, keep your heads down."

Assurances were made. Goodbyes were said. After they disconnected, the two brothers stared at each other.

"This could be good, Sam," Dean said tentatively.

"We'll see." Sam walked over to the bed and started stuffing his clothing into his duffle bag. "I'm gonna get ready to go."

"What's the rush?" Dean asked. "We don't know where we're going, or if we're going. We gotta wait till Bobby calls us back."

"I don't care." Sam looked stubborn. "I feel better when we're moving. Maybe it's not as easy for the demon to track us, me, when we're moving."

"We'll probably just end up driving in the exact wrong direction."

Sam didn't answer, just kept packing.

Dean shrugged, giving in. It was just gas and a little bit of time. If it made Sam feel better, it was worth it. "Okay, sure."

Sam nodded curtly. "Thanks." He kept packing.

With a small sigh, Dean went to use the bathroom.

Sam went still. For the space of a heartbeat, his shoulders slumped, despair washing over him. Then his jaw hardened and he straightened up, looked around to see if he'd forgotten anything.

From the other bed, Dean's cell phone rang.

Bobby, already?

"I got it!" Mood lightening slightly with how quickly Bobby had gotten back to them, Sam picked up Dean's cell. "Hey –"

"Hello, Sam," his father said. "Nice job on Jack and Frank. I'm impressed."

Sam's eyes widened. He almost dropped the phone. "Dad?"

"I'm guessing Dean killed them," John's tone was mocking. "You're not much of a fighter. But their deaths are still on you."

"Dad. I – you - " Sam looked helplessly at Dean, who was standing, frozen, in the bathroom doorway.

Coming back to life, Dean stomped over and snatched the phone from his brother. "You fuck!"

"Dean," John said calmly, ignoring Dean's outburst. "I want you to come back."

Dean's mouth opened in outrage but nothing came out. Finally, "Are you kidding me?"

"You've got to get away from him, Dean. You killed two humans. How long before you start killing innocents? How long before you don't even know the difference?"

"I didn't –" Dean bit the words back, not wanting to give their father any more ammunition.

"It was Sam?" Recovering quickly, John said, amused, "Guess some of my training took after all."

"You know what, Dad? Fuck you."

Sam shuddered and moved past him into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a bang.

"You'll be back, one way or another," John said with certainty. "Come back now and I'll leave him alone. He'll be fine."

"Yeah, until Gordon Walker catches up to him!"

Silence on the other end of the line.

"You sent killers after my brother," Dean said succinctly. "You sent rapists."

"I didn't –"

"Don't lie."

"Dean, I never told them to hurt your brother in that way. You need to remember, Sam has a tendency to exaggerate." John's tone was eminently reasonable. "He misunderstood what was happening and his overreaction killed two good men. He's always been –"

Suddenly the bathroom door opened and Sam appeared in the doorway, looking panicked.

"Hang up!"

"What –"

"Dean, hang up."

Sam grabbed Dean's cell and, ignoring John's raised voice, turned it off. Then he dug out his own cell and turned it off. "He's just trying to keep you on the phone!"

Dean's mouth dropped open in dismay. "Oh, shit!"

"How the hell did he get your number?" Sam grated. His gun was in his hand as he paced quickly to the window and peered outside.

"I don't know. Damn it!"

"Do you think he traced it?"

"I don't know, maybe. Damn it, probably." Dean had his own gun out as well. "We've got to get the hell out of here. Now."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Bobby's call went straight to voicemail and he left a message. When he hung up the phone, his worn face held a worried frown. Why wasn't Dean answering?

He knew damned well the boy was worried sick about his brother, and chomping at the bit, waiting for word that it was okay to go to Pamela's. So why wasn't he picking up?

Had John found them?

With an effort, he pushed that thought away. The boys were fine. It wasn't like they were helpless civilians. They could take care of themselves.

Bobby sighed. He wished it were possible for them to come stay with him, rest up – they were likely worn down with all the shit going down lately - but with Walker likely somewhere nearby, it was best not to take chances.

Damn John anyway, for setting that lunatic on his sons. And what the hell had Dean been talking about, a rapist? What damned rapist?

Damn it, he would get that story out of Dean, and soon. These boys were the closest thing he had to family and if someone hurt them, especially in that way, he was going to be having words with John Winchester.

More than words, he would have the bastard's blood!

Too riled to settle, he grabbed his shotgun from behind the door, checked to make sure it was loaded and then walked outside, whistling for Rumsfeld. He'd take a walk around, see what he could see.

And if he happened to see Walker – well, he wouldn't be missing this second chance at him.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Gordon watched sourly from his hiding place in the crippled Honda Civic as Singer and his dog passed by below him, thankful for the earlier brief but heavy rain which had washed away his scent.

He'd like to put a hole in the old bastard, and in his damned dog, too. What the hell was the old fool thinking, protecting Winchester's demon spawn? Singer had enough years of hunting under his belt to know you couldn't take any chances when it came to monsters. If you didn't kill them today, they'd sure as shit be killing your ass tomorrow.

Walker frowned. Was it possible that Singer himself had been turned? Was he sheltering the Winchester boys because the demon had plans for the boy, not in spite of it? He ground his teeth in rage, eyes hot on the retreating older hunter. If that were true . . .

He should kill the bastard now. But if he did and the Winchester boys called and couldn't reach him, they might not come.

On the other hand, they might decide the old guy needed help and ride to the rescue. He chewed his lip in indecision.

In the end, his only decision was to wait, and he reluctantly watched Bobby and the dog move deeper into the junkyard.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

A little surprised that he'd managed to make it to the Impala without getting his head shot off, Sam watched the road behind them as the Impala ate up the highway.

He could feel Dean taking quick little glances at him, trying to gauge his mood, but he didn't look back at him. He did not want Dean to know how freaked out he really was.

Damn it! Just when he thought he had a handle on this bullshit with Dad, some little thing would happen and he'd be right back where he started.

It had been a phone call, just a damned phone call, and what had he done? Turned into a helpless, whiny little baby needing to be rescued by his big brother.

Come on, man! How hard would it have been to just hang up on the bastard? Or tell him to fuck off and die? Too hard, apparently, for his fragile little self. Sam snorted disgustedly, not seeing Dean's startled look.

He brushed an errant lock of shaggy hair back from his face, hand trembling slightly. Screw it. Fragile or not, there was a target on his back. He was surrounded by enemies and every damned one of them fixated on killing him.

It had been a mistake, staying with Dean. He had demon blood, for shit's sake. He was going to get his brother killed if he stayed with him -

"Jesus, Sam, the crazy is practically leaking out of your ears! What the hell is going on with you?"

Sam twisted around to face the road ahead, fingers tapping nervously on his knee. "Nothing."

He heard Dean draw an exasperated breath and said quickly, "What're we gonna do about Bobby, Dean? He's probably already trying to reach us."

Looking at his little brother's pale, set profile, Dean made a sudden, unilateral decision. "We're going to his place."

Alarmed, Sam whipped around to face him. "But he told us not to come!"

"Not specifically," Dean said evenly. "He just said it would be better if we didn't."

"But what about Walker? And Dad?"

"We'll deal with that if – when - we run into them. We gotta stop running, Sammy. So long as we run, they'll keep chasing us. If we make a stand –" his voice faltered at the thought of who, eventually, they'd be facing – "we can get back to our lives, not have to worry about watching our backs every minute of the damned day."

After a minute, Sam said, with a faint smile, "So, all we'll have to worry about is monsters?"

"Fuckin' A. Business as usual." Dean reached over and gave Sam's leg a quick pat. "We can handle this."

Sam nodded, trying to hide his misgivings.

Apparently he didn't do too good a job of it, because Dean scowled and kicked the Impala up another notch. "Freaking Dad. I am gonna kick his freakin' ass."


	10. Chapter 10

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Dean closed the cell with a worried frown and handed it back to the clerk. "Thanks, Karen."

"No problem." She tucked the phone back into her jeans pocket. "Anything else? The hotdogs are pretty good."

"No, thanks." He looked at the small pile of purchases he'd piled on the counter and something clicked. "Hold on a minute?"

She gestured around the small convenience store, empty but for the two of them. "Take your time."

Gifting her with a blinding smile, Dean trotted over to the candy aisle and ran an eye over the stock.

Where was it? Had to be here. Sammy couldn't be the only gummy bear freak in the state.

A familiar flash of color caught his eye and with a triumphant swoop, he snagged not just one package of the chewy candy, but the entire box.

When he laid it on top of his other purchases, Karen laughed. "You're a fan, huh?"

Dean shrugged sheepishly and gestured out the front window. The Impala was parked directly in front of the store. They could see Sam sleeping in the front seat. "My brother."

She started to ring him up. "I'm an M&M fan myself."

Dean rolled his eyes and ran back to the candy aisle, snatching up a king-sized bag of peanut M&M's.

Amused, she shook her head when he handed it to her with an abashed grin. "Hope you've got a long drive ahead of you, sweet cheeks, 'cause you're not sleeping any time soon."

"It's a long drive, yeah." His smile faltered for a heartbeat, then came back full force. "But we're going to visit a friend, so it's all good."

Karen took the credit card he held out and ran it through, handing him the receipt. "You drive safe now."

Dean smiled, picked up the bag and walked out of the store. A minute later, the big black car pulled out of the parking lot and back out onto the highway.

ΩΩΩ

Gordon watched from his hideaway in the scrap yard as Singer barreled out the front door of his house and stomped angrily toward his car. The old man's roar carried to him easily.

"Rumsfeld!"

The big dog appeared from behind the house at a ground-eating run and Singer let the animal into the car, then climbed in himself and gunned the vehicle down the long drive and out of sight.

After a short internal debate, Gordon climbed out of his hiding place. Keeping an eye and ear out for Bobby's return, he trotted to the house, picked open the lock on the back door and disappeared inside.

ΩΩΩ

The Impala pulled up in front of Bobby's house later that afternoon. When the engine cut off, there was no movement from the car for a long minute, then Dean slid out of the driver's side. After a casual glance around, he strolled up to the front door. He knocked, but there was no answer. He knocked again, harder. When there was still no answer, he tried the doorknob, found it unlocked and went inside.

"Bobby?"

The house was silent except for the normal background noises which generally aren't noticed until they stop - the ticking clock in the study, the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the imperceptible buzz of electricity.

Closing the door, Dean walked further into the house.

"Bobby!"

As he passed the kitchen, Dean heard footsteps and turned to see a man, a stranger, in the hall behind him.

Big, black and muscled, eyes hard, looking more than a little ragged around the edges, the man held a Luger in his hand, pointed directly at Dean's middle. "Where's your brother?" His voice was harsh.

"Not here." Dean stared back coolly at the stranger.

"Wrong answer." The man took a step forward, finger tightening on the trigger. "Where's your brother?"

Bobby stepped out of the study into the hall behind the man, a shotgun in his hands. "Freeze, asshole."

Gordon Walker froze, mouth dropping open in surprise.

Dean moved forward and took the Luger carefully out of Walker's hand, then stepped to the side, out of Bobby's line of fire.

Gordon glared over his shoulder at Bobby. "I know what you are, Singer. You may have fooled this kid, but you can't fool –"

Face expressionless, Bobby pulled the trigger of the shotgun. The blast blew Walker forward, sending him flying past Dean, who staggered inelegantly back, spattered with blood.

"Jesus, Bobby!" Dean stared in open-mouthed shock at the twisted body.

"If you're gonna shoot, shoot," Bobby said flatly, "Don't talk. This bastard was dangerous. Too dangerous to leave alive."

"Yeah." Dean nodded and took a shaky breath. "Okay. Yeah."

Bobby looked in distaste at the body, regretting the need but regretting the mess even more. "Sam in the car?"

"Yeah. In the back seat under a blanket, like you said. I told him to stay there."

"Good." Bobby took a look at him. "Sorry about the shirt."

Dean looked down at himself. With a grimace he pulled off the shirt, leaving him in just his t-shirt. "That was my favorite shirt," he grumbled, then looked up, startled, at a sudden gasp.

Eyes wide with shock, Sam stood motionless in the kitchen doorway, staring in disbelief at the torn and bloody corpse.

Bobby glanced at Dean, who was clearly speechless, then looked back at Sam and said matter-of-factly, "We're gonna need some shovels, son. They're in the shed behind the house."

Sam didn't move for a long minute. Then, without a word, he turned and left the house.

Bobby sighed. "He gonna be okay with this?" he asked Dean.

Dean, staring after Sam, started to nod automatically, then stopped. "I guess he's gonna have to be," he said finally. "We both are."

Bobby grunted and crouched down next to Walker's body. Rifling through his pockets, he pulled out the man's cell phone, glanced through its call history and silently handed the phone to Dean.

John's phone number took up all of the recent history – six calls over the last two days.

With a rising sense of rage and fresh betrayal, Dean saw that the two men had spoken not long after John had called their motel room and screwed with Sam.

Bobby was leafing through a notebook he'd found in the dead man's jacket pocket. "He's got some stuff in here about Yellow Eyes, the Impala's plate number and a description of you boys."

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered.

"Yep." Bobby stood, wincing as his knees popped. "Well, let's get goin'. Corpse ain't gonna burn itself."

ΩΩΩ

Sam stood silent at the side of Walker's grave, Rumsfeld leaning comfortingly against his leg.

His fingers twisted in the fur at the big dog's neck, the boy watched as Bobby poured gasoline and salt over the corpse, watched as Dean threw a lit match into the hole, watched as the flames took hold of Gordon Walker, and felt absolutely nothing.

In a detached sort of way, he realized that he must be in shock, because if he weren't, he'd be freaking out. Which he guessed was kind of okay, because if he freaked out, Dean would freak out and Bobby – well, he didn't know what Bobby would do. Slap him, maybe, like you're supposed to do when people freak out.

He saw Dean looking at him from across the fire and dropped his eyes.

This death was on Sam. It didn't matter that Walker had been trying to kill him. He'd only been doing his job. That was a hunter's job, wasn't it? To destroy evil? That was what John believed. That was how he and Dean had been raised.

According to those beliefs, his soul was unclean. He'd been irrevocably tainted by the blood he'd been fed as a child and now his soul was blackened even more by the human blood on his hands. A little more of his humanity was burning away with every lick the fire took at Walker's body and there could be worse to come.

This wasn't over, not by a long shot. What would happen next? Who would John send? Would it be one of the hunters they'd crossed paths with over the years? Someone he thought of as a friend?

He watched the flames leap higher as Bobby splashed on more gasoline and a frisson of fear found its way in through a crack in the numbness.

When the next hunter came, would Bobby, or Dean, die at a friend's hand to protect Sam's life?

He felt suddenly sick. His hand tightened on Rumsfeld's ruff and the big dog looked up at him inquiringly.

Dean's radar was good. Stinking of smoke and gasoline, he walked around the hole and stared anxiously into his brother's face. "You okay?"

Sam nodded shortly but kept his eyes on the ground and Dean glanced uncertainly over at Bobby.

Bobby blew out an impatient breath. "Sam."

Sam didn't look up.

"Sam!"

At Bobby's bark Sam looked up and the older man had to steel himself against the lost look in the boy's eyes. "You listen to me, Sam. Gordon Walker was a Grade A lunatic and a son-of-a-bitch. If I hadn't killed him, he'd have killed you, and me and maybe your brother, too."

He looked into the fire at the blazing corpse and snorted contemptuously.

"Hell, he'd have killed Rumsfeld, too, just for spite! So don't you feel guilty about this murdering bastard. You got enough on your plate right now without addin' that. You hear me?"

"But the demon blood," Sam protested. "I –"

"Did you ask for it?" Bobby snapped.

"Of course not!"

"Then how the hell is it your fault? Shit happens, boy! And sometimes the best you can do is just get the hell in front of it!"

Sam stared at him, absorbing the words, feeling a faint lessening of the guilt and fear battling within him. "Thanks, Bobby."

"Good." Bobby nodded shortly. "Now, forgot to tell you two with all this crap going on, but I talked with Pam and told her what's going on. She says she thinks she can help."

Sam's eyes were wide. So was Dean's grin. "Yeah?"

"I didn't tell her about the demon blood, just that you were having trouble keeping someone out of your head. You can decide when you meet her how much you want to tell her."

Sam exchanged an uneasy glance with Dean.

"If I was you, I'd tell her everything," Bobby went on. "She knows how to keep her mouth shut, and the more she knows, the more she can help."

"Now, time you two got out of here, before anyone else shows up." Bobby took a set of car keys out of his pocket and tossed it to Dean. "Take Walker's car with you and dump it. Make sure to wipe it down."

Dean nodded and tucked the keys into his jeans. "Bobby - you have any clue how Dad got my cell number? It was new and I hadn't called anyone but you. You think he has some kind of trace on your landline?"

Bobby's face went sour. "If he did, I'll find it. In the meantime, I got some Tracfones you can use. Don't use 'em to call anyone but me, though. We don't know who else your daddy might have got his hooks into."

Sam's face fell and Bobby raised an admonishing finger. "Don't start that!" he said sharply. "You aren't responsible for John's bullshit any more than you are for the demon blood."

He waited until Sam nodded, then said, "Good. Now how about you go into the house and get those phones. They're in the desk in my study, bottom drawer on the right."

"Okay." Sam turned to go to the house, then rushed around the still-blazing grave and grabbed Bobby in a hard hug. "Thanks, Bobby." Letting go of the startled old man, he ran toward the house, Rumsfeld loping along beside him.

Bobby watched him go, fighting back the unexpected burn of tears. Once Sam was out of earshot, he turned abruptly to Dean.

"Tell me, right now, what happened with the men John sent."

Dean's mouth dropped open in surprise. With all that had been happening, he'd completely forgotten that he'd spilled the beans to Bobby.

"Uh . . ."

"Now."

Reluctantly, voice halting, not liking to even think how close he'd come to losing his brother, Dean told Bobby about that horrible night.

"I knew those two bastards," Bobby said when Dean finished. "Not a big surprise they'd pull something like that."

"Knowing Dad sent them . . ." Dean trailed off, then shrugged. "It's been hard on him."

"On you, too," Bobby observed.

Dean ignored that. "I get the feeling he's holding something back about that night, but – I don't know. I could be off."

Bobby said delicately, "You sure they didn't -?"

"He killed them before they got the chance." Dean's voice was full of pride.

"Kid's got guts."

"I know, but – he's had a hell of a lot of deal with. I think - he's afraid the demon blood is going to turn him into a monster or something." Dean shrugged again, but the old man could see the fear behind it, the need for assurance.

Choosing his words carefully, Bobby said, "I don't know what that demon's got planned for him, but I do know that Sam's a good boy –" he stopped, corrected himself – "a good man. I've known him his whole life and I've never seen anything that would change my mind on that."

Dean was listening hard.

"The demon blood, that's scary," Bobby continued. "But Sam's got you. And he's got me." He reached out and grasped Dean's arm.

"No matter what happens," he said fiercely, "Sam will be all right. You and me, we'll make damned sure of it!"

ΩΩΩ


	11. Chapter 11

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It had been a long day and they were now well into the night.

They'd dumped Walker's car about two hours outside of Sioux Falls in a rest area off the highway, leaving the keys inside. It was a well-used stop, with what looked like a fairly healthy drug trade going on, so they figured the car would probably be gone within an hour. Maybe less.

When he climbed back into the Impala next to Dean, Sam laid his head back and tried to catch up on his sleep, but after about ten minutes of staring at the insides of his eyelids, he gave it up. There was too much crap trekking through his head.

Dad. The yellow-eyed demon. This supposed psychic they were going to see. The dead men.

Especially the dead men. Their faces, their deaths, were on constant replay in his frazzled brain. Though exhausted, sleep wouldn't come.

Sam wasn't sure that wasn't just as well. Any dreams right now would probably just be nightmares and he'd had more than enough of those lately.

So he slouched in the car, head bobbing along to the music blasting out of the radio, watching as the shadows of the world blew by them.

A couple of hours later they were about a hundred miles shy of their destination when Dean drifted across the highway and dropped into an exit lane.

Sam straightened, looking at the still half-full gas gauge. "We're stopping?"

"I gotta get some coffee and food into me." Dean yawned. "You could use some, too. When's the last time you ate?"

Sam was about to say chili and cornbread at Bobby's house. Then he remembered that most of his bowl had gone untouched and his brother damn well knew it. He kept silent and Dean gave a noncommittal grunt.

As they drove through what looked to be the town's main street, Sam looked doubtfully out the window at the darkened storefronts.

"Doesn't look like anything's open," he said dubiously. "I could take a turn driving, let you catch a few z's. There's bound to be something open further on. Truck stop, maybe."

"Hell," Dean grumbled. "I could really use some –" He stopped, breaking into a wide smile at the sight of what looked like a bar at the end of the street, right at the edge of town. The parking lot was full and one of the letters on the flickering sign out front went dark as they watched.

"Bingo."

ΩΩΩ

Five minutes later they were sitting at a mostly clean table in Gerry's Bar and Juke, a rowdy hole in the wall full of people drinking hard and dancing badly to a country western jukebox.

As late as it was, nearing midnight, the bar's grill was closed, but Dean managed to charm the waitress into putting together some sandwiches and coffee and the two boys dug in hungrily, cleaning their plates quickly.

Watching Sam's food disappear from his plate made some of the tension inside Dean loosen a bit. He'd managed to stay mostly quiet about the amount of food that Sam wasn't eating lately but it hadn't been easy. His brother didn't carry a lot of extra weight to begin with and the stress of the last few months was starting to tell on his slender frame.

Sipping a second cup of coffee, Dean let his gaze wander around the room, his attention soon fastening on the pool table on the other side of the room. A game had just ended and the victor was trying to talk the loser into another game, but not having much luck. Dean's eyes lit up and he started to rise from the table, then he hesitated and sat back down.

"Dean." Sam, who'd followed his gaze, leaned forward. "Go ahead."

Pretending not to follow, Dean frowned. "What?"

Sam rolled his eyes. He motioned to the pool table, where the victor from the earlier game was aimlessly shooting balls across the table.

Dean shook his head. "We should get going. Bobby's friend is waiting on us."

"Are you kidding?" Sam scoffed. "She's sound asleep by now. If we leave now, we'll just end up sleeping in the car 'til she wakes up."

"I don't know . . . " Dean looked around the room, assessing the crowd. They were loud, yeah, but pretty mellow overall. His lips curved in a quick smile. "Just one game."

He got up and, after a casual shove at Sam's shoulder, swaggered across the room. A minute later a game was underway; no big money involved, just two strangers enjoying a friendly game.

Sam watched the game from his table, enjoying his brother's simple pleasure in the game, happy to see him relaxing, having a good time. After a while, he rose and made his way around the corners of the dance floor toward the restrooms in the back, giving a short wave to Dean on the way.

He used the toilet and washed up after, splashing cold water on his face, trying not to think about what might, or might not, happen the next day.

Didn't matter, really. Either Bobby's friend was going to save the day or she'd have no clue what to do and they'd be back on the road again. They'd find some not-all-the-way evil witch or hoodoo priest that could help. Or maybe – maybe Dad would pull his head out of his ass, realize Sam wasn't the enemy and help them figure a way out of this shitstorm.

Sure.

Right after the sun rose in the west, pigs flew and hell froze over. He shook his head and gave a derisive snort of laughter.

"Wha's so funny?"

Startled, Sam spun, almost lurching into the big man standing close behind him.

Shit! Where did he come from? Dean would kick his ass if he knew Sam had let someone sneak up on him like this. If he told him. Which of course he wouldn't.

When Sam didn't answer, the he burly man scowled and gave a loud belch that smelled like beer and nachos. "I said, what's so fucking funny?"

Sam shook his head slightly. "Nothing." He started to slip past the stranger and the man grabbed his shoulder, wrenching him to a painful halt. The man's face now held a nasty leer.

"What's your hurry, kid?"

ΩΩΩ

Billy Barrow groaned as Dean's final ball sank unhesitatingly into the pocket. "Whoa!" He shook his head admiringly and stuck his hand out to Dean, who took it with a grin. "Good game, man. You up for another?"

Dean shook his head with reluctance. "Nah, we gotta get back on the road. Places to be."

"It's not often I get my ass handed to me quick as you did it," the other man said jokingly. "If you come by again, stop in, give me a chance to even things up."

"You got it -"

"HEY!"

Both men turned at the sudden shout. Several people were crowded around the partially-open men's room door. Shouts and thuds resounded from inside and just as Dean remembered that Sam had gone in there just a few minutes before, a big man, a very big man, catapulted out the bathroom door and onto the crowded dance floor.

He plowed into the dancers with a strangled squawk, taking several down to the ground with him. Before any of them could get up, Sam plunged out of the bathroom after the man, mouth tight, eyes hot with rage. Ignoring the people around him, he threw himself on top of the fallen man and started pounding his bearded face, blood spurting as one of his blows broke the man's nose and split his lower lip.

"Sam!" Leaving a staring Billy behind, Dean pushed through the crowd and grabbed Sam by the shoulders, pulling him off the bloodied man. Sam jerked free, fist raised, ready to pop him one, then stopped, breathing hard, when he saw Dean.

Dean saw the bouncer coming, fast. "We gotta get outta here –" he started.

Sam scowled and turned back to the still prone man on the floor, pulling back a foot to kick him.

"Sam, knock it off!" Dean grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and yanked him through the crowd. After a brief struggle, Sam gave in and followed. Once outside, he jerked away from Dean and stalked angrily toward the car, Dean close behind.

"What the hell, Sam?"

"Nothing!"

"Sam -"

Sam jerked to a halt and spun on him, sending Dean back a few hasty paces.

"Fine! You want to know what happened? The asshole wouldn't take no for an answer!" Sam's face was crimson with rage.

"No?" Dean was confused.

"No, I won't suck your dick for fifty bucks!" Sam spat. "No, you can't fuck me! And yes, I do think I'm too fucking good for you!"

Dean's mouth dropped open.

The bouncer, who'd come outside just in time to hear Sam's tirade, grimaced and went back inside. Dragging Sam back inside to wait for the cops was clearly no longer a priority.

With a last glare at his brother, Sam got into the Impala, slamming the door behind him.

Stunned, Dean hovered for a moment, torn between getting Sam out of here and going back inside to rip the asshole's head off.

At last, with no clue at all what to say to Sam, he slid into the Impala.

Ω Ω Ω

After about fifteen miles of tension-fraught silence, Dean ventured cautiously, "Did he hurt you?"

"No." Sam kept his eyes on the road in front of them. "I hurt him."

"What - did he - "

"I don't want to talk about it," Sam snapped.

Another few miles.

Sam was still silent, staring sullenly out the window.

Dean was seriously considering dumping his brother in a motel and going back himself to take care of the creep at the bar.

"No."

Dean looked over at him, confused. "No, what?"

"No," Sam said, looking at him squarely. "We're not going back."

Dean's mouth dropped open.

"You're not that hard to read, Dean." Sam laid his head back and closed his eyes.

Dean wasn't sure why, but he felt a little insulted. If anyone was easy to read, it was Sam. After all, he'd been reading this kid since he was born. All Dean had to do was glance at him to know exactly what was going on with him.

Well, except for right now. And, come to think of it - he thought back to his conversation with Bobby above Gordon's grave.

"Sam –"

Sam sighed. "Dean, I just want to forget about it."

"No. Not just about the creep tonight. You've been holding something back, maybe since that night at the motel, when those guys –" He stopped when Sam turned to stare at him with wide eyes.

"Sam, come on," Dean said pleadingly. "When have secrets ever gotten us anywhere?"

Sam looked away. After a few seconds of what appeared to be a silent struggle, he turned back to his brother. He started to speak, then stalled.

Dean's brow creased, but he tried to remain patient. "What?"

"That guy - he pissed me off but - he's not," Sam stopped, frustrated. "I don't get why it keeps happening! The pricks from before, the guy tonight, and Dad telling everyone that -" He stopped again, not quite ready to put it out there.

"Dad?" Dean paled. "Sam, just freaking tell me!"

Sam flushed, deeply, horrendously embarrassed. "Dad - he said we were –" He made a vague gesture between them – "Together."

"Together?" Dean didn't get it. Of course they were together, what the hell was Sam talking –

"Oh. Oh." He turned just as red as his brother. His attention nowhere near the road, the Impala drifted over into the other lane and then yawed back again, bringing the angry blast of a horn from the car directly behind them.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Dean yanked the car hurriedly to the side of the road, switched off the ignition and sat staring straight ahead.

At last, he looked over at his brother, who was staring back at him apprehensively. "He what?"

"You heard me." Sam's voice was barely audible.

Dean stared blindly at the steering wheel, so confused, so stunned, so furious, he could barely think.

"Son of a bitch," he finally got out. "What the hell is wrong with him?"

The only answer was the sound of the occasional passing car as the two boys sat wordlessly, each very careful not to look at the other.

That silence was suddenly broken by the sound of crunching gravel as a car pulled in behind them.

Dean looked into the rearview and groaned when he saw the distinctive bubble on top of the car. "Heads up, Sam. Five-0."

Sam twisted in his seat and saw an officer climb out of the car. The man straightened the belt at his waist, then started toward the Impala. "Crap."

"Just chill. We're fine." Dean cast a quick look around the car to make sure nothing that would get them tossed in jail was in sight, then rolled down his window.

The officer, a short, tubby man with a balding head swaggered up, stopping just short of Dean's window.

"Evening," he said, experienced eyes looking them over. "You two okay?"

"Yes, sir," Dean's tone was respectful. "My brother was feeling sick. I pulled over 'cause I didn't want him pukin' in the car."

"Not really the best place to pull over." The officer tilted his head, studied Sam. "Haven't been drinking, have you, son?"

Sam gave the man his best sad puppy dog eyes. "No, sir. I'm just sick. I think maybe I got some bad Chinese."

"Could be the flu," the officer offered. "Lot of that around this time of year."

"Might be," Dean agreed. He looked over at Sam. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah."

Dean looked back at the officer, who studied him for a moment, as if trying to gauge just exactly how much b.s. was being thrown his way. After a minute, he said genially, "Well, you drive safe now."

"Yes, sir, I will," Dean answered. "Thanks for stopping."

"That's my job."

With a final glance at Sam, the patrolman headed back to his car.

Dean started up the car. Just as he was pulling back out onto the road, Sam looked out the back window at the officer now sitting in his car, staring at them.

As he did so, a semi-truck passed, heading in the other direction. Its headlights washed over the officer and his eyes flashed a sudden brilliant yellow.

Sam sucked in a sharp breath.

The man grinned at Sam, wide and mocking. Then he gave a peppy farewell toot on his horn and pulled out onto the road, swinging around in a tight circle to head back in the other direction.

"Dean," Sam said in a choked voice.

Dean glanced over at him and at the expression on Sam's face, pulled hastily back onto the shoulder. "What's wrong? Sam?"

Stunned, Sam didn't hear him, didn't even really feel Dean's hands on him. All he could see was the gleam in the demon's eyes, his smile . . . Can't be, can't be, can't be.

Dean's grip tightened on Sam's shoulders. "Sam!"

Sam looked at him, face white, eyes wide and shocked. "It was him."

"Who?"

Sam looked down the road in the direction the patrol car had disappeared. "The demon."

Dean's eyes widened and he looked at the night around them. "Where?"

"He was in the cop," Sam said numbly. "He was here. In the cop. Dean, he was in the cop."


	12. Chapter 12

(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

Dean twisted around in his seat and looked out the back window. The patrol car was out of sight, and the demon-ridden cop along with it. No chance of catching up.

Just as well. Hunter's instincts aside and no matter how much he wanted the bastard back in hell where he belonged, what would – could - they do if they did catch up with him?

He looked at his brother. For the second time that night, he had no idea what to say.

Sam didn't have that problem. "I am so fucked," he said bleakly.

Dean searched for words. All he could come up with was his old standby. "We'll figure it out."

Sam stared at Dean for what seemed like a very long time to his older brother. His face was blank with a thousand unspoken thoughts and Dean couldn't read him at all.

Without a word, Sam opened the passenger door and stepped out onto the shoulder of the road, closing the door carefully, quietly, behind him.

After a quick look around – no patrol car, no demon in disguise coming back for them, at least not yet – Dean slid across the seat and out of the car. He jogged over to where Sam stood just inside the line of trees that paced the road.

"Sam – "

"We'll figure it out. We'll figure it out?"

"I don't -"

"He found me," Sam said, just in case Dean had missed the obvious. "I wasn't even asleep and he found me."

"I know. I know this is bad," Dean admitted, trying to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. "But we'll figure it out, we will. We'll go to Pamela's and - "

"Oh, come on!" Sam's hard-won control suddenly deserted him. "How the hell is she gonna help? Even if she's got some way to keep that fucker out of my head, what good is that if he can find me whenever he wants to?"

"Sam – "

"No!" Sam's voice rose, shook. "We're not gonna figure it out! That psychic can't help! You can't help! Dad was right! We're never gonna get rid of that demon. Dad was right. The demon is going to turn me. And you – what if I -" His voice faltered and Dean saw clearly the terror his brother had been concealing the last few weeks. "You should just kill me and get it over with!" he burst out, then stopped, a terrified look on his face.

Dean blanched. Fear and anger storming through him, he grabbed Sam by the shoulders, fingers digging in, and shook him, hard.

"Don't you say that! Don't you ever say that!"

They stared wide-eyed at each other, Sam just as aghast as Dean at what he'd said. He stared blindly down at the ground and swallowed hard past the lump in his throat. "I didn't mean it."

"You did. That's what scares me." Dean couldn't take his eyes off of his white-faced brother. "You've been thinking it for a long time. You just finally said it out loud!"

"I'm sor – " Sam began haltingly.

"You've got nothing to be sorry for!" Dean interrupted. "Nothing. None of this shit is your fault!"

He released Sam and stepped back. After a moment, he put a hand on Sam's arm and steered him back to the car where they sat silently until Dean got his brain back in gear.

"Listen, Sam, you're beat," he said, with as much calm as he could muster.

Sam didn't answer.

"You've only had a few hours sleep the last few days. What with that and that yellow-eyed bastard on your tail, and Dad and his bullshit – it's no wonder you're half out of your mind." Dean hesitated. "I've got some sleeping pills, if you think . . ."

Sam stiffened. "Would you want to sleep, if you were me?"

"Probably not," Dean admitted, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Honestly? He'd be scared shitless if he thought he might have to face that bastard every time he closed his eyes.

Sam looked out the passenger window and Dean tried to think.

Wouldn't it be worth the risk, just the one time? For just one night of unbroken sleep? He thought of the sleeping pills and how easy it would be to get a couple into Sam's coffee or water.

He wavered for a moment before deciding against it. Sam would never forgive him. "Okay, so no pills," he said reluctantly. "But we're still going to the psychic's place."

Sam threw a look at him. His belief that she would be completely useless was clear.

"Sam." When the boy didn't respond, Dean reached over and gently but firmly pulled him into the circle of his arms, much as he had done when they were younger and Sam had needed the comfort of his older brother. He ignored Sam's initial surprise, ignored the discomfort and tension emanating from him. He didn't let him pull away, just held on until Sam surrendered and relaxed against him, shivering slightly.

"You cold?"

Sam stifled a yawn. "A little."

Dean started the car and turned the heater on. "Look, let's just try the psychic. Maybe she can help. Won't hurt to try, right?"

Sam was silent, then, "What about Dad?"

Dean rolled his eyes, trying for a little levity. "Dude. One cluster fuck at a time."

Sam nodded. He looked into Dean's face, then quickly away. "Just promise not to – promise you won't let me hurt - anyone."

"Sam –"

"Promise!"

At the desperation in Sam's voice, Dean gave in. "Okay, okay. It's not gonna happen, but I promise. Can we go now?"

Dean waited until Sam gave a barely perceptible nod and, keeping his brother tucked in beside him, pulled back onto the road.

ΩΩΩ

John drained his glass. Setting it carefully back down onto the worn bar, he motioned to the bartender for a refill.

Once the man had moved down to the other end of the bar to take care of another customer, John took out his cell phone and checked, again, for messages.

Nothing.

Walker should have called him by now. He was two hours past check-in. With some people it might have simply meant he'd forgotten, or lost his phone.

Not Walker.

If he hadn't called, he was most likely dead.

Killed by Bobby or one of the boys, it didn't really matter. What did matter was that John's allies were getting pretty damned thin on the ground and so were his options.

Singer was his best bet for running down his sons but the only thing he was likely to give John was a bullet to the brain and, while he was no coward, John didn't like his odds going against Bobby Singer. The old man was just too mean and too damned good.

Yeah, best to leave that particular wasp's nest alone, for now. Maybe later, after things had calmed down a bit.

Face set in a disgruntled frown, he looked down the bar at the bartender, who raised a questioning eyebrow. John shook his head, tossed a couple of bills onto the bar and headed for the door.

Time to bait some more lines, see what he could pull in.

ΩΩΩ

Dean had been astonished but grateful when Sam slid into sleep a few miles before they reached their destination. Probably due to a combination of exhaustion and the security of his brother's arm around his shoulders, Sam lay slumped against Dean, small purring snores escaping him and, so far, zero signs of nightmares.

The Impala at rest at the foot of Pamela Barnes' driveway, Dean's cell phone vibrated and he carefully pulled it out, trying not to wake his brother.

"Yeah?" he said softly. "Bobby?"

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Nothing!" Dean said, feeling defensive. "Why?"

"Pam says there's been a big-ass black car parked in front of her house for the last hour and she wants to know if it's you two yahoos."

Dean snorted. "I thought she was psychic. Couldn't she tell?"

There was a short, chilly silence.

"Dean, get your ass in that house. She's been up all night working on how to help Sam, and she says she's got an idea."

"See, this is what I get for trying to be nice," Dean looked toward the house. Someone had pulled aside a curtain and was looking out. "I was just waiting for morning. Besides, Sam –"

"Dean, stop screwin' around and get in there," Bobby practically growled.

"Okay. Damn."

Muttering something unintelligible, Bobby hung up.

A little irritated, Dean put away his cell and shook Sam's shoulder lightly. "Come on, Sammy, time to wake up."

Sam shifted uneasily in his sleep and then grew suddenly and absolutely still. Even his breathing seemed to stop.

Dean started to shake his shoulder again, then stopped and drew back his hand.

"Sam?"

ΩΩΩ

Dean flipped up the end of the blanket and tickled the bottom of Sam's feet. "Come on, Sammy, wake up."

Yawning, Sam curled up into a tight little ball, removing his feet from the danger zone, and snuggled deeper into his pillow. "Five more minutes," he mumbled.

"No way, dude. Shower, coffee and we're outta here. We gotta get back on the road."

Sam just snuggled in deeper. Then the sense of the words sunk in and he opened his eyes.

"What?" He sat up and looked around sleepily, confused to find himself in a completely unfamiliar motel room. "We stopped?"

"I almost drove head-on into a semi," Dean said irritably, buttoning up his shirt. "Figured it was time to pull over."

"And I just happened to fall asleep?" Sam glared at Dean. "Did you drug me?"

"I thought about it," Dean admitted, looking around for his boots. "But no."

Sam looked at him suspiciously, then shrugged it off. "Whatever." He stretched back out on the bed, pushing back the blankets and gave a groan at the satisfactory pop of joints. "Man, I can't believe I slept. I didn't even dream. I feel - great."

Dean smirked. "Told you that's all you needed." He reached out and gave Sam an impatient shove. "Come on, move your ass."

"Fine!" Sam scowled and sat up again, leaning over the side of the bed to pull his duffel up onto the bed.

Dean watched as Sam dug through it, pulling out clothing, tossing things aside, clearing looking for something specific. "What're you looking for?"

Sam grinned in triumph and pulled out the knife Dean had given him for his birthday the year before. Without a pause or word, he grasped it firmly by the haft and thrust it deep into his brother's vitals.

ΩΩΩ

Sam opened his eyes.

He wanted to scream, wanted to throw himself from the car, find the nearest high roof or cliff and jump off. He wanted to grab the nearest gun, place the muzzle to his forehead and blow his brains out.

He didn't do any of those things. He lay against his brother as quietly as he could until he was absolutely sure he had his shit together. Then he sat up and scooted away, giving Dean, and himself, some space.

Sensing something was off, just not sure what, Dean said uneasily, "You okay?"

Sam nodded, then motioned at the house. "This it?"

Dean followed his gaze to the house, saw the window was now empty. "Yeah. Bobby just called, said she's got an idea that might help." He tried to inject a little enthusiasm into his voice.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, so –"" Dean shrugged and gave Sam a lopsided grin. "Let's get this party started." He threw his door open and unfolded himself from the car. As he did so, a tall, brown-haired woman came out onto the front porch of the house and stood waiting, hand raised in greeting.

Dean raised his hand in answer and started up the driveway, then stopped and turned back to Sam.

Blowing out a shuddering sigh, Sam got reluctantly out of the car and trailed after his brother.

He could still feel the warmth of Dean's blood on his hands.


	13. Chapter 13

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When the Winchester brothers first showed up on her doorstep, Pamela thought they might be the saddest, most haunted boys she'd ever seen.

Exhausted, cornered, desperate - all hidden behind the stony face of the younger boy and a flirty grin on the older - it was clear to her that their situation was about as bad as it could get.

Bad enough that after she sat them down at her kitchen table and started the coffee pot, she said immediately, but gently, "Bobby didn't tell me, Sam, but I can see it for myself. You're demon-shadowed."

Sam gasped and threw a wild look at Dean, who stared at the psychic with narrow-eyed intensity, flirty grin now nowhere in sight. "And just how the hell do you know that?" he asked dangerously.

Pamela tapped her forehead. "Psychic, remember? And a damned good one. I've dealt with four possessions over the last three years or so and –"

"I'm not possessed!" Sam protested, backing up a little, looking ready to bolt.

"No, you're not," the psychic said evenly. "But he is shadowing you."

Seeing their confusion, she clarified. "He visits your dreams and messes with your head. You're afraid to sleep, so you don't sleep, which means you're exhausted. And that makes it even easier for him to mess with you. That about cover it?"

Bowstring tight, Sam said in a low voice, "Yes. But there's more."

"What?"

"He found me. Us." Sam couldn't meet her eyes. "Earlier tonight."

Alarmed, she glanced at Dean and he gave her an unhappy nod.

Pam tried not to show just how much that little bit of bad news freaked her out. "Could he have followed you here?"

Dean raised his shoulders in a helpless shrug. "How would we know?"

"Why would he need to?" Sam said bitterly. "He can find me whenever he wants to."

On the counter, the coffeemaker hissed and fell silent. Brow furrowed in thought, Pam got up and poured three cups of the strong brew. Dean took hold of his cup with a nod of thanks, not bothering with the milk and sugar she placed on the table. Sam took one sip, clearly meaning to be polite, then put the cup back down onto the table.

"I don't think he can find you whenever he wants," Pam said finally, sitting back down at the table. "He's just a demon. Powerful, yes, but demons are basically just ghosts with some kick-ass thrown in. He shouldn't be able to find you on this plane whenever he wants to, not when you have hex bags – you do have hex bags, right?"

At Dean's nod, she held out her hand and he handed her the soft bag Bobby had given to him before they left, the duplicate of one he'd given Sam.

She raised it to her nose and inhaled, breathing in the strong smell of the familiar herbs. "You got this from Bobby?"

He nodded again.

"Of course you did." Her lips curled in a wry smile. "Well, these hide you from demon kind on the upper plane. Their eyes pass over you; they can't get a lock."

"But he did find me!"

"It doesn't make sense. Unless –" Pam's cat-eyes narrowed and then widened in realization – "unless there's some physical connection between you."

"What do you mean, physical?" Dean asked.

"Between him and me?" Sam asked at the same time.

"Yes. You're carrying around something that connects him to you."

The two brothers looked at each other, appalled. Sam looked sick.

Pam rolled her eyes. "Guys, this is good news! All we have to do is figure out what the connection is and get rid of it. Then we can get on with the real work of masking Sam, permanently, on the upper plane."

"You make it sound so easy," Dean muttered.

Pam sighed and tucked an errant strand of dark hair back behind her ear. "Look. I know you're tired and you have no reason to trust me, other than Bobby's word. But I'm asking you to trust me, for just a little bit. Let me help you."

Uneasy, Sam didn't answer, leaving the decision to his brother.

After a long minute, Dean finally nodded, reluctantly. Neither he or Sam said what they were all thinking.

The two of them didn't really have any other choice.

ΩΩΩ

In the end, the Impala herself was the culprit, the contraband concealed in her undercarriage - a small, nondescript tracking device, reeking of sulfur.

Scooting out from underneath the car with it, Dean glared ferociously at the device, as upset with himself as he was at the demon who'd put it there. As much time as he'd spent under the car, he'd never once suspected it was there!

Cursing under his breath, he started to drop it to the ground, intent on grinding it into dust, but Pamela caught his hand just in time and carefully took the device from him.

"As soon as I get you two settled, I'm heading to the nearest truck stop and planting this little honey under a semi. I'll find one that's going a good long way." She winked at Sam, eyes glinting mischievously. "How does Canada sound?"

Despite everything, Sam couldn't resist grinning back.

Dean laughed out loud.

ΩΩΩ

Dean insisted on going over the Impala one more time, just to be sure. Not wanting to wait, Pamela hopped onto her Harley and roared away, intent on truck stop shenanigans.

By the time she got back it was late afternoon and the boys had finished repacking the car. Sam was numb with exhaustion and Dean not much better.

Listening as Pam laughingly described crawling under a Saskatchewan-bound eighteen-wheeler to plant the bug, the boys followed her back through the kitchen where, in the back of the pantry, was a door with a serious-looking padlock.

"I've got a safe room downstairs." Pam took a key out of her pocket and slid it into the padlock. "No one goes down here except me, not even Jesse."

"Who's Jesse?" Sam interrupted.

She looked at him, surprised, then laughed and turned her back to them, flipping up the back of her t-shirt. A tattoo rode along her lower back, delicately scripted letters proclaiming 'JESSE FOREVER'. "Jesse's my sweetie."

"Where is he?" Dean asked, a little suspiciously. "Shouldn't we meet him?"

"You will, but it's gonna have to wait. He's back east, visiting his mom." Her tone of voice made clear her opinion of that sainted woman. "He'll be back in a couple of days."

Gesturing for them to follow, Pam made her way easily down the brightly lit basement stairs, the boys' boots shuffling behind her. At the bottom they stepped into a room that had clearly been much larger at one point but was now bisected by a formidable looking wall.

"What– ?" Curious, Dean ran a hand lightly over the wall. Its entire surface was covered with a variety of signs and sigils, not so much as an inch left to itself. "Hell, is this iron?"

"You bet your ass it is," Pam said, unabashedly proud. "Walls, floor, ceiling, all of it."

"Musta cost a friggin' fortune," Dean marveled. "This is awesome!"

"We went over it with a mixture of salt and acrylic paint," Pamela added, then looked at Sam. "With the iron and salt, and the spell work, no ghost or demon is getting in there. You'll be safe."

"I can't stay in there forever," Sam said, too tired to keep the peevishness out of his voice.

"It's just temporary," she answered. "I've got an idea. One that's going to take you off the demon map, permanently."

She opened the door and went inside, Dean close behind her. Sam started to follow, then stopped, staring at the large sigil on the floor directly in front of the door.

"What's that?"

"It's a devil's trap," Pam called back. "If your demon friend does manage to figure out where you are, there's no way he's getting past it to you."

Sam didn't like the sound of that. At least – well, holding the demon out, yeah, but what about – what had the psychic called him, demon-shadowed? Would it hold him as well? Could he even walk through the thing?

Aware of Dean and Pamela waiting for him, he stepped reluctantly into the center of the trap. Then, almost holding his breath, he continued through to the other side, a sigh of relief escaping him when the spell didn't restrain him.

The panic room was about twenty by twenty, a huge fan circling on the high ceiling with a dull whump-whump. Four bunkbeds were staggered on the opposite wall; a table, chairs and television crowded together with a computer set-up on a cast-iron stand, and a grouping of shelves stuffed with a large assortment of books and notebooks, along with various canned and dry goods.

Dean tapped the television. "Get much reception down here?" he joked.

"Turn it on."

Dean did so and saw with surprise a view of the front of the house, the Impala front and center on the driveway. "Whoa."

Pam bent over the keyboard of the computer. With each rapid click of the keys, the television screen showed a different view of the house and grounds.

"Cool." Sam yawned as a wave of weariness suddenly swept over him. His feet feeling a little unsteady underneath him, he walked over to one of the bunk beds and sank down onto it.

Dean watched him worriedly. "How about you get some sleep?" he suggested. "Pam says you'll be okay in here."

Sam looked at the psychic, then quickly away, back at his brother.

Getting the message, Pam said, "I'm going to make a call, see if Jesse's booked his flight yet. Maybe I can get him home a little quicker."

"We're going to need him?"

She nodded and started to explain, then stopped. "We can talk after you guys get some rest." She looked at Sam, "Sleep well, Sam."

After she left, Dean said, "We need to test it out sometime, Sammy. Might as well be now."

Sam hesitated. "You'll wake me if . . ."

"You bet." Dean nodded toward the ceiling. "I'm gonna pull the car around to the back of the house, then I'll be back with our stuff. Ten minutes, tops."

Sam looked longingly at the soft white pillow waiting for him. He sighed and nodded, then pulled off his boots and lay back on the bed, snuggling into the pillow with a deep sigh.

He was asleep before Dean reached the top of the basement stairs.


	14. Chapter 14

((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

"Crap.

Fuming, the demon pulled the patrol car over to the side of the road and glared as the semi-truck pulled into an already packed truck stop and parked in one of the few remaining spots.

After a minute, the driver – fiftyish, bald and packing a sizable beer belly - hopped down from the cab and sauntered into the restaurant.

The man bore absolutely no resemblance to either of the Winchester boys. That meant - unless they were hiding in the back of the truck with the load of cut-rate electronics heading for the Canadian border - those two little wood lice had discovered his tracker and were hightailing it in the other direction.

The demon huffed out an annoyed breath. It was his own fault. He should have checked on the little buggers earlier, kept a closer eye on them. He briefly considered waiting until the driver came out, having a talk with him about where he might've picked up the tracker, but odds were the man would have no idea.

Besides, while it might have been fun trying to dig the nonexistent information out of the man, he had better things to do right now. Like finding a new vessel. This policeman was getting boring.

Ready to leave, he paused and leveled a stern eye at the truck he'd been tracking for hours. After a few seconds, tendrils of smoke started seeping out from underneath the hood, followed soon after by flames.

With a snort of laughter, the demon smoked out, leaving his unconscious vessel slumped over the steering wheel of the patrol car.

SUPNSUPNSUPNSUPN

Dean wasn't quite sure he'd heard Pamela correctly.

"Tattoos," he repeated slowly.

Pamela smiled. "Tattoos." She poked a finger at the worn book on the kitchen table. Specifically, at the incredibly detailed sigil splashed across an inner page. "I found this a few years ago in an occult bookstore in Denver."

"Weiser's?"

She nodded, pleased. "You know it?"

"We used to stop in whenever we drove within a few hundred miles of it," Dean answered. "Dad loved the place. Said any book that came from Weiser's was the real deal. But they closed last year."

"They didn't close. They've just gone online." Pam pulled over her tablet and brought up a website. She clicked on the site's catalog, then pushed it across to Dean. "See?"

Dean's eyes widened in appreciation at the preliminary listing of books. "I wonder if Bobby knows."

Pam snorted. "Are you kidding? He's my main competitor! I'm lucky to get one out of four of the really good stuff they put on here." She smiled a sly cat's smile at him, green eyes glinting in the kitchen's bright light. "We cut a deal, though. I send him copies of everything I get and he does the same." She turned back to the book.

"According to this, sometime in the late thirteenth century a philosopher and teacher in Italy by the name of Alessandro Ricci was possessed by a demon. After being ridden for more than six months, the demon deserted him, left him for dead in the mountains near Montecassino."

"He lived?"

"He got lucky," she said flatly. "The nuns at a nearby Benedictine order found him and took him in. It took him more than eight months to recover."

"Huh."

"He spent the next twenty years traveling the world, learning all he could about demons and spreading word of their existence." Her mouth twisted. "They burned him as a witch almost twenty-one years to the day that the demon deserted him."

Dean didn't bother commenting on the monumental stupidity of early witch hunters. He tapped the illustration. "So tell me about this."

Pam drew a breath. "Well, according to this, a priest in Florence told Ricci that this sigil is guaranteed to keep out any and all demons. Ricci was running scared at that point because someone told him that demons sometimes like to repossess old victims. He was afraid he'd be taken again so he wanted to believe this would work."

"Can't blame him. But how do we know if it works?"

Pam smiled and turned a few pages in the book, pointing to a particular passage. Dean read it. His mouth dropped open and his eyes rose to hers, full of hope. "Seriously?"

Pam nodded. "At the priest's instructions, Ricci had the sigil tattooed on his back. It ran from the base of his spine to the top. Three years later the demon tried for repossession and failed."

"Holy shit."

"Ricci was burned the very next day. The local magistrate accused him of witchcraft. Right before he was burned, the demon revealed himself to Ricci. He was possessing the magistrate."

Dean studied the grisly etching of a man wrapped in agony on top of a fiery pyre, then thumbed back to the picture of the symbol. "So this could work."

"What could work?"

Sam stood, dark hair standing on end, at the door of the basement. Smothering a yawn, he came into the kitchen and took a look at the book on the table between them. "What's that?"

Dean stabbed a finger at the illustration. "That is what is going to save your ass, Sammy."

Sam's hazel eyes widened. "What? How?"

Casting a grin at Pamela, Dean smirked and leaned back in his chair. "Tattoos."

Sam blinked at him, then at Pam. "Tattoos?" he echoed.

"Tattoos, a spell discovered more than seven hundred years ago and proven by an accused witch."

Pam smacked Dean on the shoulder and when he yelped in surprise, she said to Sam, "Brothers are a pain in the ass, aren't they?"

"Hey"! Dean said with a wounded look.

"I had three," Pam said confidingly to Sam, pulling him down in the chair next to hers. "They spent most of their time messing with me; the rest of the time messing with each other."

Sam grinned back at her, unable to resist.

Seconds later, all three were on their feet, facing the back door as it swung open and two men strode in.

"Babe!"

The first man, big and burly with a clean-shaven face and a huge grin, held out his arms to Pamela. With a happy cry, she threw herself into his arms; he lifted her up and swung her 'round in a tight circle, his long blond hair sweeping across her face.

After a long, smacking kiss, he put her back on her feet and tossed his jacket toward the kitchen counter. He missed and it slipped to the floor, drawing a snort of laughter from his companion.

Jesse shot a middle finger at his friend and then advanced toward the boys, blue eyes warm. "Hey. Jess Walken."

The two boys glanced quickly at each other, then both shook his hand.

"Sam."

"Dean."

Jesse jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the man in the doorway. "This is my buddy, Darren. Pain in the ass from way back."

"Screw you," the man retorted good-humoredly. "See if this pain in the ass picks you from the airport next time."

Pam gave Darren a quick hug. "Thanks for saving me from airport traffic."

"No problem." His eyes traveled carelessly over the boys. "Look, Jess, I gotta get going."

"Thought you were going to hang out for a while," Jesse said, surprised.

"Nah. I'm gonna head over to The Pony, meet up with some of the guys." Darren raised a hand in farewell and was out the door.

Jesse looked at the Winchesters and shrugged apologetically. "He's not too much into strangers. No offense."

Dean shook his head. "None taken."

Jesse poured himself a cup of coffee and flopped down at the table, pulling Pam down onto his lap. Giving her a tickling kiss under the ear, he pulled the old book to himself, taking in the heavily-detailed illustration. "This it?"

She leaned back against his chest with a sigh of content. "It is."

He studied it closely. "Doable. Who's my victim?"

The boys sat back down at the table and Sam answered him, looking glum. "Me."

"You have any other ink?"

"No!"

Jesse grinned at Sam's emphatic answer. "Not a big fan of needles?"

When Sam shrugged, Dean elbowed him in the ribs with a snicker. Sam glared at him.

Jesse turned to Pamela, who was watching the boys with unconcealed amusement. "Okay, babe. Spill."

The boys watched as Pamela brought Jesse up to speed. It had gone against all their father's teachings for Sam and Dean to tell her the details of their mother's death. Admitting to Sam's demon-initiated dreams and the fact that said demon was trying to recruit Sam for a satanic army had been difficult, to say the least.

Listening now as she shared their lives with Jesse had both boys thrumming with tension. How would he react? Sure, Pam was a friend of Bobby's and well-versed in their world. But Jesse? Who was he? A stranger.

And even if it was necessary for this stranger to have this information - even if he was trustworthy - who's to say he wouldn't tell someone else? Maybe a few someone else's? With each person that learned their secrets, their world got even more dangerous.

As they listened to the all-too-familiar story, the boys' faces were expressionless. But, as Pamela had said before, she was a damned good psychic. Once she finished running down the situation to Jesse, she looked across at the boys and said exactly the right thing.

"Don't worry. Once Jesse finishes the tat, you two can be on your merry way." At their startled faces, she said wryly, "That's what you want, isn't it? Just the two of you - on the road, saving people, hunting things?"

Dean shrugged unapologetically. "It's all we know."

"No offense," Sam added.

"None taken." She turned to Jesse, who was studying the illustration again. "How long do you think it'll take?"

He drew in a deep breath, frowning as he figured it out. "About a week. Maybe a little less."

"A week!" Dean exclaimed, clearly dismayed. "Why so long?"

"Hey, man, this is a spell. We take it slow, do it right. Otherwise, it's just a pretty picture."

Sam nudged Dean and he subsided.

"Plus," Jesse added, "I've got to find a priest to bless the ink."

Even Pam looked surprised at that. "You think that's necessary?"

"There's a phrase in there about 'bletsian' ink. Old English, yeah? Better safe than sorry." Jesse shrugged. "Can't hurt."

"Blessed ink?" Dean asked, incredulous. "Where the hell are we gonna find a priest who won't object to blessing tattoo ink?"

At the absurdity of the question, the four stared at each other for a long moment. Then, as one, they started to laugh.


	15. Chapter 15

ΩΩΩ

In the beginning, Sam's frayed nerves were pulled so tight that every touch of the needle was amplified almost beyond bearing. It was an effort to sit still at all.

Dean stayed with him, of course, but after the first couple of hours he decided to clean their guns so he could have something to focus on besides the pain on his little brother's face. He could've done it in the panic room, or anywhere in the house, but damned if he'd leave Sam to suffer on his own.

Five hours under the tattoo gun that first day, four on the second. Five again on the third. A brutal marathon of pain and blood, it went on each day until Jesse was forced to call a halt. The design was delicate and painstaking and the spell work had to be perfect.

You don't get that with a tired, shaking hand.

But with each passing hour, the feeling that it was taking too long, that someone was getting closer, got stronger.

ΩΩΩ

Darrell tipped the bottle back and drank thirstily. Damn, that was good. There was nothing, nothing, like a cold bottle of beer after a hard day's work.

Half the bottle gone, he belched daintily, then slumped back in his chair, luxuriating in the heady feeling of having absolutely nothing to do for the next two days.

Two days!

He'd hang out with the guys and play a little pool. Drop over to Jesse's, try to drag him out for some fun. Maybe go see that little redhead bartending at Fontana's. He grinned to himself. What was her name? Linda?

No, Lucy. That was it. Lucy.

He checked out the clock on the tavern wall. It was just after ten pm. If he hurried, he could be there before closing, chat her up, see if she were up for a repeat performance.

Still . . .

Sitting was good, too.

And Lucy would still be there tomorrow.

The voices from the table behind him were starting to get loud. He'd been ignoring them for several minutes, but suddenly the names Sam and Dean were spoken and Darrell's eyes opened lazily. Sam and Dean. He knew those names. But from where?

Oh, yeah. Over at Jesse's place.

He continued sipping his beer, catching the occasional word and phrase from behind, attention sharpening with each additional bit of information.

After a bit the unseen duo moved on to other, less interesting, things.

Thinking furiously, Darrell finished his beer and, with a wave to the bartender, left the bar.

ΩΩΩ

Sam peered over his shoulder, trying to see the tattoo on his back. The bathroom mirror was small; he could just see the top of the design climbing up his spine, about three-quarters of the way up.

Thankfully, after tomorrow it would be done. Jesse would bring the design up between his shoulder blades to start up his neck, then curl around to end up behind his ears. He'd been afraid that would mean cutting his hair, but Jesse had said no.

He yawned hugely and then scowled into the mirror at the dark circles under his eyes. His back was burning, his appetite was shit and he was exhausted because he couldn't sleep, worrying he'd roll over and mess up the tat.

Stupid, he knew; it was a tat, not a wet canvas. But he kept picturing the lines being smudged, chalk on a chalkboard, and the demon slipping in-between the smudges.

It wasn't fair. And sure, life wasn't supposed to be fair, but it wasn't like his life hadn't been shit before this. A murdered mother. A father looking to kill him. A demon stalker.

But at least that stuff had all been on the inside. You wouldn't know it just to look at him. Now the freak show was going to show on the outside!

He turned away from the mirror, wincing as the movement stretched his tender skin, and headed back out to the kitchen for the next round.

Whatever.

Once this was all done, he would just never take off his shirt again.

Ever.

ΩΩΩ

Jesse studied the day's work and grunted with satisfaction. "Looks good. Little touch-up tonight, then, as promised, we'll finish up tomorrow." He paused, eyebrow raised inquiringly. "Unless you want to quit for the day?"

Sam shook his head. "Nah, I'm good. Let's keep going."

Jesse shrugged. "Works for me." He reached over to the table and selected another needle, filled it with ink and bent again over Sam's back.

Sam closed his eyes and just breathed.

Dean was dozing at the other side of the table. When the buzzing of the ink gun started up again, his eyes opened to a slit. He peered across at his sweating brother, then sighed and closed his eyes again.

ΩΩΩ

Darrell pulled up behind Jesse's truck in the driveway. Turning off the ignition, he lit a cigarette and stared at the house, windows brightly blazing in the dark.

It had been almost twenty-four hours since he'd overheard the disquieting conversation at the Pony and he'd been fighting with himself ever since about coming to Jesse with it. Truth was, he had enough shit of his own to deal with, he didn't need to be messing with anyone else's.

In fact, he had a rule about not messing with other people's shit!

But this was Jesse. That changed things. The two of them had been friends all the way back to junior high. If the Winchesters were involved in something that was going to bring trouble down on Jesse, that made it Darrell's business.

Darrell rubbed out his cigarette and climbed slowly out of his truck.

He hoped he hadn't waited too long. Hoped that the strangers would hear no carelessly spoken gossip about the strangers staying with Jess and Pam.

He hoped that he could persuade Jesse to tell him what the hell was going on.

ΩΩΩ

Pam's smile was welcoming. "Hey, Darrell! Come on in! You're just in time for supper."

Darrell saw Dean in the kitchen behind her, awkwardly stirring something at the stove. He glanced around at Dare with wary eyes before turning back to the stove.

"No, that's okay," Darrell said quickly. "I just need a word with Jesse. He around?"

"Yeah, sure. He just finished up." With a curious - and somewhat cautious – look at him, Pam called back over her shoulder, "Jess! Dare's here!" and then went back to the stove, taking the spatula back from a relieved Dean.

When Jess came into the kitchen, Darrell gave him a quick jerk of his head and the two walked outside into the chill night air.

Catching on to his friend's mood, Jess waited until they reached the driveway before he asked, "What's up?"

"I don't know who those boys are, but they've brought trouble," Darrell said flatly. "I was in the Pony yesterday and I heard two assholes talking about a reward –"

"What?"

"A reward on two boys, Sam and Dean Winchester. Said they were runaways, driving a '67 black Impala, like the one back of your house."

"Shit," Jesse said feelingly. "Do they know the boys are out here?"

"Didn't sound like it. Maybe someone saw the car in town. It's hard to miss."

"Did you know them?"

"They weren't locals." Darrell hesitated. "Jesse, the Winchesters. Who are they? Who's hunting them?"

Jesse gave a short laugh. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Is it something to do with Pam's psychic shit?" Darrell was trying to be cool about it, but his underlying opinion came through loud and clear.

Jesse's eyes narrowed. "We gonna do this now, Dare?"

Darrell sighed and rubbed a hand across his face. He didn't want to do this, really didn't, didn't want to risk losing his best friend, but it needed to be said.

"I got nothing against Pam." At Jesse's skeptical look, he said emphatically, "I don't. But this shit she's into – you keep messing with it, you're gonna get freaking killed. That witch last year –" He shook his head, after all this time still not quite able to wrap his head around it.

"Christ, man, if you'd told me before that whole thing went down that witches were real, I'd've thought you were crazy. That witch – you were lucky to get out of that shit alive."

Jesse's brief flare of temper died. He knew his old friend had nothing against Pam, not really.

But Darrell been the one to race Jesse to the hospital last year, rags tucked 'round his belly so his guts wouldn't spill out. He'd been the one to sit with a shell-shocked Pam through the long hours of Jesse's surgery, the one who'd had to come up with a story the police would believe.

Before last year, Darrell had looked at Pam's 'psychic shit' as something not real, something to smile at. He took it seriously now because it was the reason his best friend had nearly died.

Jesse gripped his old friend's shoulder, trying to find the right words. "It wasn't her fault. You know it wasn't. Helping people - this is something we choose to do."

Darrell didn't look convinced, or happy. Jesse went on steadily. "This is something I choose to do."

After a long minute, Darrell nodded resignedly. "Okay. So how about you tell me now what's going on with the Winchesters and why someone's offering a $50,000 reward?"

ΩΩΩ


	16. Chapter 16

ΩΩΩ

Every part of Dean wanted to throw his brother into the Impala and take off.

Fuck the tattoo. Fuck the psychic protections. Fuck everything.

Reading him all too easily, Pam touched his arm. "Now isn't the time to go off half-cocked, Dean. We need to finish Sam's tattoo. It's the best chance we have of protecting him right now."

"I don't -" Dean started to pull away, then stopped, struggling for calm, aware of Sam's eyes on him. "It's our dad again, has to be."

Pam hesitated, then asked carefully, "You don't think it was the demon? They aren't above using human methods when they need to."

Darrell's eyes went wide but Jesse shook his head and Dare bit back his words. His glare at Jesse said very plainly that it wouldn't be for long.

"It's Dad." Dean's tone was bitter, and certain. "He tried the same thing before. A couple of his friends caught up with us in Florida."

He said no more on that subject and they knew better than to ask. The fact that the boys were here now told that tale on its own.

"Does your father have access to that kind of money?"

"Fuck, no!" Dean gave Jesse a disbelieving look.

"So if someone turns you over to him?" Jesse persisted.

"He'll pay them in lead," Dean said flatly. He turned away and went to the kitchen window. Staring into the darkness outside, he listened as the others discussed the situation in low tones.

Sam didn't contribute anything to the conversation. He just sat, hands twisting in his lap, watching his brother.

"Will you stay, Dean?" Pamela finally asked, brow crinkled in a frown. "Jesse needs another day to finish up."

"Two would be better," Jesse interrupted. "But I can make do with one."

Leaning back against the sink, arms folded across his chest, Dean scowled. "Fuck, I don't know."

"Sam, what do -" Pam stopped, staring at the boy's suddenly crimson face. "Sam?"

Sam laughed. It was an ugly, choking sound. He stood, one quick movement. "You don't know, Dean? You don't know?"

Dean straightened, paling. "Sam –"

"We'll figure it out!" Sam glared at him. "That's what you always say, right? Well, fuck that. Let's make this easy." His voice rose to a shout. "I want the demon to go back to Hell where he belongs! I want this shit to be over! I want a freaking life!"

"Sammy . . ."

"No, Dean -" At the stricken look on Dean's face, the rage-fueled adrenaline drained out of Sam and the words he'd been thinking for days, for weeks, came out in a harsh whisper.

"I want Dad dead."

Sam stopped. Eyes wide, horrified at his own words, he bolted out of the kitchen and down the basement stairs.

Head bowed, Dean stood for a long moment, his breathing harsh in the stillness of the kitchen. Then, gathering himself, he followed his brother downstairs.

After a fraught silence, Darrell turned to Jesse and said incredulously, "Demons?"

ΩΩΩ

Sam paced back and forth in the panic room, perilously close to losing his shit.

Dean hovered at the door. "Sam."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Sam said agitatedly. "I was just – forget I said it, okay? I didn't mean it!" His voice was shaking. "Those guys in Florida weren't enough, now he's got a freaking bounty out on me?"

"Sammy -"

"This stupid tattoo's not gonna stop hunters, Dean!"

Dean shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry, man. I'm - look, do you want to stay? At least, if we finish the tattoo we won't have to worry about the demon. I think –" he drew in a deep breath. "I think we should stay."

"What about Dad? What about all the rest of it?"

Dean didn't answer. The two stared at each other.

"I need a few minutes," Sam said at last, voice trembling with the effort not to cry, or scream.

After a brief hesitation, Dean nodded.

When he heard the door close at the top of the stairs and was sure that his brother was gone, Sam let out a low groan. Curling himself up into a tight, trembling ball on one of the cots, he let the tears come.

ΩΩΩ

The kitchen was empty but for Pamela.

"Jesse took Dare upstairs for a little Demon 101," Pam said with a wry smile.

Dean snorted. "That's gonna be a hell of a conversation."

"Tell me about it."

"Is he –" Dean waggled his hand vaguely. "You know, safe?"

She nodded. "He's been Jesse's best friend for as long as either of them can remember."

There was a spate of angry shouting from upstairs and they both listened until Darrell ran out of breath and the house was quiet.

"Last year," Pamela went on, "A pretty nasty witch moved into the county and people started dying, in not very nice ways. I managed to track her down and – well, let's just say things got bad." She got up from the table and got a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard, along with several glasses. Pouring them each a healthy slug, she drained half her own glass before continuing.

"Jesse almost died. Dare got us to the hospital, helped me take care of the witch once we were sure Jesse was going to make it. I don't know what I'd have done without him." She stared reflectively into her glass. "With demons in the mix, he's probably wishing he'd kept out of it this time."

Dean shrugged noncommittally, in no real mood to talk, and they lapsed into silence; Pam listening to the soft murmur of voices from upstairs, and Dean caught up in the sticky problem of his son-of-a-bitch father trying to kill his little brother.

Truth was, bad as this bounty seemed, it wasn't any worse than what had gone down in Florida. Nothing, nothing, could be worse than the sight of Sam lying still and bloody on that motel room floor.

The bounty - it was just one more blow in a series of progressively worse blows that proved, without a doubt, that John wasn't going to stop.

It hurt. A lot.

But Dean knew, he knew, that if he and Sam were going to get through this, they had to find a way to put that pain away. It made them weak, made them vulnerable, and it was going to get them killed. If they were going to survive, they had to start looking at their father as just another monster.

Dean sighed and rubbed at his aching temples.

"More?" Pamela held up the bottle of whiskey.

With a tired smile, he held out his glass with a nod of thanks.

Then the two waited for word, from above or below.

ΩΩΩ

Jesse and Darrell came downstairs somewhere towards the bottom of Dean's second glass. Jesse looked stern and sad. Darrell, gutted.

Watching Darrell, Dean felt sorry for him. He himself had found out about monsters when he was so young he couldn't even remember how he'd felt about it. It was simply a fact of life.

But he'd seen in others since then that finding out the world was nothing like they believed it to be could be - no, was, life-altering.

He'd spoken to a priest, years ago, a man who'd barely survived a vampire attack. He'd told Dean that finding out monsters were real was like walking on thin ice. You never knew if the next step you took would be the one to dump you into the drink and drown your ass.

Dean had thought at the time that it was a remarkably apt description.

When Jesse and Darrell sat down at the table, Pam produced more glasses and the four of them sat at the kitchen table, drinking.

"You okay?" Pam asked Dare.

"I've been thinking about that old saying." Dare took a deep swallow of whiskey and shuddered at the burn. 'Ignorance is bliss,' right?"

"Ignorance is only bliss until something you didn't know existed is eating your face," she said practically.

Darrell just stared at his nearly empty glass. Then he drained it, set the glass down and looked at her squarely. "Life's a bitch."

"And then you die," Pamela agreed.

Dean let out a snort of laughter.

"Bunch of freaking optimists," Jesse said sarcastically.

"Hey, I'm an optimist!" Pamela protested. "I just have a twisted sense of humor."

"You got that right," Jesse grinned, a little unwillingly, when she leaned over and kissed his cheek. He nodded toward the basement door.

"How's he doing?"

Dean shook his head.

"What do you think he'll say?"

Thinking of the pain in Sam's eyes when he'd left him in the panic room, Dean shrugged.

"No clue."

Pamela passed the bottle 'round again.

ΩΩΩ

Sam cried until he had no tears left.

It took a while.

Afterward, he lay limp and quiescent on the panic room floor. Too exhausted to do much more than breathe, he took temporary refuge in thoughts of the last day of their beach idyll. The warmth of the sun baking into him. The water's soft caress. The luxury of simply being.

They'd been so happy that day. Dean had been so happy, getting his flirt on with every bikini in sight.

Dean. Hell.

The thought of his brother got him to his feet. He walked stiffly into the tiny bathroom, wincing at the reflection of his haggard face in the mirror. He rinsed his face with cold water but it didn't help much. He looked like he'd spent the last hour crying like a stupid little baby, which he had

He turned away from the mirror. Didn't matter. Wasn't like they could think any less of him than he already did.

Feeling drained, he trudged tiredly up the stairs, hearing voices in the kitchen, Dean's among them.

When he came into the kitchen, they all looked at him with varying degrees of curiosity and concern. Ignoring them, he dropped into the chair Dean pushed out for him and looked at the nearly empty whiskey bottle on the table.

"Enough left for me?"

Not even blinking at his request, Pam got another glass from the cupboard and poured him a shot.

Sam took a tentative sip, coughing a little before he cleared his throat and looked at his brother.

"Fuck Dad. We stay."


	17. Chapter 17

ΩΩΩ

The buzz of the tattoo machine was as familiar, as soothing, and as necessary to Jesse as the sound of his own breathing. It was not, unfortunately, what would be needed to finish up the last of the spell work on Sam's tattoo. Putting it aside for the moment, he blotted the blood from Sam's back.

Sam roused from his half-doze and peered at him sleepily. "How's it look?"

"Perfect." Jesse dabbed on some alcohol. "Done for the night, though. We'll finish up tomorrow with a little stick and poke." He stood up, stretching to relieve the strain in his back.

"Stick and poke?"

Jesse grinned at Sam's tone. "Yeah, I've gone as far as I can with the coil." He motioned to the tattoo machine on the table. "The last of the spell work is pretty detailed. Coil won't do it, not as fine as it needs to be."

"Stick and poke doesn't sound like a lot of fun."

Jesse shrugged. "Not any more painful than the coil. It'll just take a little more time."

"More time is what we don't have," Sam objected.

"I know. Look – I told you we'd finish tonight, but we have to take the time if we want this done right." Frowning, Jesse studied the spell work in the open book.

"How much more time?"

Jesse thought on it and gave his best guess. "If my arm holds up, I should be able to finish it tomorrow. If not, the next day."

Sam groaned and started to get up, then subsided when Jesse put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "There's no middle ground here, Sam. The spell work has to be perfect or it's just a tat."

Anger flared in Sam and he started to pull away, then stopped, biting his lip and fighting for control. He could feel Jesse's hand shaking on his shoulder, could see the exhaustion in his face. This man was trying to help him, trying to save his life, and he was acting like a spoiled brat. "Sorry."

Jesse's smile was tired, but genuine. "No need." He picked up the bandage on the table. "Let me cover this last piece up and we'll get something to eat."

ΩΩΩ

"Yeah, we're stuck for another day or so." Cell phone cradled between shoulder and ear, Dean stared moodily out the kitchen window.

On the other end of the line, Bobby asked, "How's Sam doing?"

"What do you think? He's fucked up."

"How are you doing?"

Dean didn't answer.

"I said, how are you doing?" Bobby persisted.

"Who cares? I'm not the one with a bounty on his fucking head!"

"No." The old man's voice was tart. "You're the one trying not to let his father kill his little brother. So – how are you doing?"

"Fucked up," Dean said after a short silence.

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

"Didn't need to ask then, did you?" Dean snarked back.

"You want me to come out there?"

Dean hesitated, wanting that, hell yes, then sighed and leaned his hip against the sink. "Nah, we'll be okay."

"Dean –"

"There's nothing you can do here, Bobby. We'll be out of here soon enough." Dean straightened, wanting the conversation to be over. "Listen, I gotta go."

"Dean, hold on. Tell Sam –"

"What?"

"Tell him the bounty won't hold."

"What?"

"I'm putting the word out," Bobby said grimly. "Anybody tries for that bounty answers to me."

"What does that mean?"

"What the hell do you think it means?"

"Bobby, you can't –"

"Do you think I'm gonna let that crazy bastard get away with this?" Bobby exploded. "It'll be a cold goddamned day in Hell –" He paused, breathing heavily, then went on, choosing each word carefully. "I may not be blood, but you and Sam are my family. That's not something I take lightly."

"Bobby –"

"I got some calls to make." An abrupt click and he was gone.

Dean stared at his phone. Then, blinking back what sure as hell wasn't tears, he tucked away his cell and looked across the kitchen to where Sam and Jesse were finishing up a late dinner.

More accurately, Jesse had finished eating a while ago and was taking his time over a second glass of whiskey. Sam was drooping sleepily over a mostly still-full plate.

Dean pulled a chair around, and sat down next to his brother. "Sammy, you really need –"

"What?"

Dean gave Sam a rueful grin. "I was gonna bust your chops about eating, but screw it."

Sam looked at his plate. "Yeah." He rose and started to pick up his plate.

Dean held out a hand. "Don't sweat it. I'll take care of it."

It was a testament to how truly exhausted Sam was that he let Dean take it with only a murmured thanks and a good night to Jesse. At the basement door, he looked back at his brother.

Dean was quick to answer the unspoken question. "I'll be down in a couple minutes, Sammy."

Sam disappeared downstairs. Jesse drained the last of his whiskey. With a casual nod to Dean, he left the kitchen and went upstairs to bed.

Almost grateful for something to do after the forced inactivity of the last several days, Dean took up Sam's plate and Jesse's glass. He washed them and the few dishes in the sink, then gave the table and counters a quick wipe down.

Turning off the kitchen light, he was heading for the basement door when he saw a light coming from the hall. After a brief hesitation, he followed the light to the living room and found Pamela sitting cross-legged on the floor, a spread of tarot cards laid out before her.

"Hey."

Pam gave him a quick smile. "Hey."

"Thought you'd gone upstairs already," he commented, advancing hesitantly into the room.

"Couldn't sleep." She laid down a card.

He didn't say anything, but something made her look up and she laughed out loud. "Boy, that's some kinda judgy-face you got going on there."

Dean smiled, trying to get rid of the judgy-face. "Nah, sorry, it's cool. It's just –"

She huffed out another laugh. "You're not gonna hurt my feelings. What?"

Dean took the plunge. "My dad says tarot cards are like Ouija boards. They open you up to dangerous influences."

"Yeah? Well, your dad also thinks that Sam is the Antichrist and should be destroyed. So, there's that."

Dean flushed. "Good point."

"Besides, my crystal ball is at the cleaner's." Her dark eyes glinted with humor.

"Can I . . ." He motioned to the floor beside her and when she nodded, sat down on the carpet, watching as she scooped up the cards, shuffled them expertly and started laying out another spread.

"They're really more of a focal point than anything else," she said conversationally. "And yes, opening myself up, but not to other influences, just to – oh, I don't know, letting my conscious mind in on things my subconscious is already aware of." She turned over another card, studied it.

"Can I ask, sorry . . ." Dean trailed off, feeling awkward.

"Go ahead."

He nodded to the card she'd just laid down. "What's that?"

A man, robed and crowned, sat on a throne. In one hand an upraised sword, in the other the scales of justice.

"The King of Swords. Strength. Righteousness. Authority. Idealism." She flicked a glance at Dean and smiled to herself. "Someone trying to save the world."

She turned up another card. It showed a tall young man in renaissance dress, holding a large, rounded cup. "The Page of Cups."

"What does it -?"

"It usually stands for someone young. Emotional. Sensitive." She paused. "Someone vulnerable."

Another card. "The Five of Cups."

A dark, cloaked figure, facing away, a running stream in the background. Dean didn't like the look of it.

"Loss. Patrimony. Bitterness," Pamela said softly. "Frustration. Rage. He wants . . ." Her eyes grew distant. "He wants things back the way they were . . ."

Feeling a chill, Dean touched her sleeve. "Pam? You okay?"

Her eyes focused on him, then she looked back down at the card with a frown.

"Pam?"

She just shook her head. "Sam's waiting for you."

"Oh, yeah." Dean rose quickly to his feet, feeling guilty. He'd promised Sam he'd be right down. "Night, Pam."

"Night."

Once he'd left the room, Pam stared down at the card, not sure what it was trying to tell her, but not liking at all the direction it seemed to be taking.

She picked up the cards, shuffled, and dealt again.

ΩΩΩ

Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring blankly into space. He smiled half-heartedly as his older brother came into the panic room. "Hey."

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean said apologetically.

Sam shrugged and Dean sat down beside him. "Can't sleep?"

"I keep waking myself up."

"You worried about dreams?" Dean asked, concerned.

Sam shook his head, looking embarrassed. "I'm afraid I'll roll over on it, mess it up."

"The tat?"

Sam nodded.

Dean's first impulse was to laugh. It was a tat, for shit's sake, not chalk on a chalkboard. But he could see Sam was seriously worried, so instead he asked, "What did Jesse say?"

"He said not to worry," Sam admitted.

"Well, he should know, right?"

"I know. Forget it. It's stupid." Sam got up quickly and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Dean slowly pushed himself to his feet, trying to think what to do. Words weren't going to do the job. Not if his brother was going to get any sleep tonight

Mind working, discarding first one idea, then another, he got ready for bed, then went around the room turning off lights, leaving on just the nightlight in the corner. When Sam came out of the bathroom, Dean went in to take his own turn, still turning the problem over in his head.

When he came out, he had a cocky grin on his face and Sam, already in bed, was instantly suspicious, as any half-way smart little brother would be. "What?"

Dean patted the edge of Sam's bed. "Scooch over this way for a minute."

Sam sat up, confused. "What, are we trading beds?"

"No, we're sharing. Come on, get over here. I'm gonna lie next to the wall."

"If you want this bed, I can just use the other one," Sam protested.

Dean rolled his eyes and motioned impatiently until Sam gave in and scooted toward the edge of the bed. Dean jumped over him, making the bed bounce as he landed. Sam couldn't help laughing and Dean looked triumphant as he laid down against the wall.

"Okay, now scoot back against me. I'll make sure you don't roll over."

"What?"

"I'd like to get to sleep sometime this freaking century, Sam." Dean patted the bed again. "Move it!"

"You just told me to move over here!"

Dean sighed. "Why you always gotta make things hard?" He pointed to the bed directly in front of himself. "You lay down here, on your side. Face away from me."

"But why –"

"Sam!"

Abandoning all hope, Sam scooted awkwardly back across the bed and took up his position, feeling awkward.

Ignoring Sam's obvious discomfort, Dean asked, "Can you reach the pillow on my bed?"

"Yeah, sure." Sam reached out and snagged the pillow from the other bed.

"Now hug it," Dean instructed. "I've got your back and the pillow will stop you from rolling that way."

"Oh." Sam relaxed a bit. "Okay."

"Good." Dean said, draping an arm over Sam's waist. "Now sleep."

It took a bit. After all, it had been a lot of years since the brothers had shared a bed.

But soon enough the soft warmth of the bed drew him in, the press of Dean close behind him turned into a familiar comfort and a delicious drowsiness stole through him. Sam drifted into sleep, and Dean soon followed.

SUPNSUPNSUPNSUPNSUPN

I'm not even a neophyte at astrology, but my best bud Lib knows some and she helped me out with what the little I used tonight. Any mess-ups are my responsibility.


	18. Chapter 18

ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ

Leland smirked at the sweet young thang as she passed his table.

The girl, pastel pink and barely old enough to drink, looked at him uncertainly. He snorted out a laugh as she hurried past him to rejoin her friends.

Leland liked making young women nervous, so he let his eyes linger on her until she and the rest of her table got up and left the bar in a tight little group.

As they were leaving, the man Leland had been waiting for finally arrived. He stood just inside the door for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness of the bar; then, when he saw Leland at his table near the back, made his way over.

"Mike," Leland said gruffly. "Drink?"

Michael O'Shaughnessy shook his head and took a chair. The two sat in silence for a long minute, that silence broken at last by the newcomer's flat announcement.

"I'm out."

"Out?" Leland bristled. "What the hell do you mean, out?"

"I got a call from Maggie Grisham. Bobby Singer's put the word out. Anyone takes on John Winchester's bounty answers to him."

Leland's bearded mouth tightened. "So?"

"So Singer's a man of his word. I'm not gonna tangle with him."

"Well, damn, man, for fifty thousand dollars, maybe you could borrow some balls and get back on board!" Leland snapped. "I got word that black Impala was spotted north of town a few days ago and I got a good idea where they're hiding out!" His voice got loud.

Mike flicked a wary look around the crowded bar. "I never did like it, Winchester putting a bounty on his own sons," he said in a low voice. "I don't much like leaving you in the lurch either, but – well, without me you can have the whole fifty to yourself." He shrugged. "Maybe you'll even live long enough to spend it."

"Damn it, Mike –"

"Wise up, Leland. Besides having Bobby Singer hunting your ass, you might want to think on how that psycho Frank and his fuck buddy ended up dead in Florida."

Leland sank back in his chair, mouth agape. "Frank?" he finally managed to get out. "That was them boys?"

Mike didn't answer. With another wary look around, he left the bar, leaving his old friend furious, frustrated, and not at all convinced.

ΩΩΩ

Sam slept long, and well.

Dean knew this because he'd woken several times during the night and each time his brother had been blissfully unconscious.

When Dean woke for good at about eight a.m., Sam was no longer lying beside him, but already dressed and out of the panic room.

The house was safe. Dean knew that. Jesse and Pam were upstairs and Darrell was keeping watch outside in case any murderous piece of crap came sneaking around.

Even leaving them out of the equation, Dean had faith in his own instincts.

Still and all, he dressed quickly and headed upstairs, anxious to lay eyes on his brother. Halfway up the stairs, he paused in mid-step, caught in a web of aromas so fragrant, so unexpected, it made his head swim.

"Holy crap!" He took the last steps two at a time and burst into the kitchen. "Is that turkey?"

Caught in the middle of forking up some pie, a bright-eyed Sam flashed a whipped cream grin at him.

"Oh, man." Dean hijacked Sam's fork and took a bite of pie, closing his eyes in bliss as the subtle blend of apple and cinnamon caressed his tongue. "Oh, fuck me!"

"You're a sweet talker, Dean." Chuckling, Pam took the fork from him and handed it back to Sam. Then she pushed Dean into a chair and placed a big piece of whip cream slathered pie in front of him. "Eat up."

"Thanks, Pam." Dean dug in. He glanced toward the oven and said through a pie-filled mouth, "Is that turkey?"

Pam went to the sink and started filling it with soapy water. "Yep. And mashed potatoes. Gravy. Green beans. Dressing. Got some fresh bread rising." She looked over her shoulder at them. "Oh, and pineapple upside down cake."

Sam whimpered.

Dean stared around at the covered bowls on the counter, the bubbling pans on the stove, breathed in the amazing smell coming from the oven. "Pam, you – this is great!"

She shrugged. "I don't cook too often, but when I get in the mood, I go a little crazy."

"My kinda crazy," Dean said emphatically.

Pam piled some dishes into the sink, then faced them, leaning casually back against the sink.

"You guys have a cooler, right? In the car?"

"Yeah." Sam ran a finger across his plate, scooping up the last of the whipped cream.

"Good, because when you leave here, you're taking leftovers with you."

Sam snickered at the idea of leftovers anywhere in Dean's vicinity, but caught his brother's look and straightened his face, trying for wide-eyed innocence.

Jesse entered the kitchen, coffee cup in hand. "Make sure you keep back some of that cake for me. It's like freakin' crack." He looked at Sam inquiringly. "You about ready?"

Sam half-rose. "Don't you want –" He gestured around the kitchen.

"No, I want to work first." Jesse crossed to Pam and kissed her lingeringly. "Pretty sure I won't be able to move at all after I eat."

ΩΩΩ

Dare felt the vibration of his cell phone in his pocket. Pulling it out, he kept his voice low when he answered. "Ruth Ann?"

"New guy's gone, Dare." Ruth Ann's voice was rough with cigarette smoke. "He blew off the asshole in The Pony and split. I followed him out onto on 64E, all the way to 57S."

"You're not still on him?"

"Is this my first fucking rodeo? Do you think I don't know my business?"

Dare wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Ruth Ann . . ."

"He stopped just over the Kentucky border, got a motel room and a woman. I left him there."

"Ruth Ann –"

"I stuck a tracker under his car while he was in The Pony," Ruth Ann interrupted. "He comes back this way, I'll know."

Despite himself, Dare was impressed. "Damn, woman."

"I know my shit," she said smugly.

"Thanks."

"John Winchester's an asshole. Not much I wouldn't do to fuck him over."

"Norm's still on the other guy?"

"Yeah. He's still at the Pony, playin' cards and talkin' shit." She sucked in some more smoke, coughed. "He's trying to recruit, but nobody's biting. We'll let you know if he heads your way."

"Thanks, Ruth Ann."

"I don't mind you owing me one. See ya." She clicked off.

As Dare tucked away his cell phone, a fine scattering of rain started to fall through the canopy of trees. He pulled his hat down over his eyes with a sigh.

It wouldn't be long now. The tat should be done today and the Winchesters would be out of here. Life could get back to normal.

He chuckled softly.

_Normal. ___


	19. Chapter 19

ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ

It was Saturday night at The Pony, and crowded, but the big man didn't hesitate, just shouldered his way through the crowd to the back of the bar where Leland Bishop had been holding court for the last few days.

Leland rose to greet him with a brief nod and, after a glance around, the two men sat down with a bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses between them and started to talk.

Heart racing, face neutral, Billy turned to the bartender and gestured for another beer.

John Winchester. No question.

Looked a good fifteen years older than the picture Ruth Ann had shown him, but there was no mistaking him.

Billy took a swallow of beer, thinking quickly.

Winchester showing up here meant Bishop knew where the two boys were. If not, he wouldn't have brought their psycho father here.

That meant it wouldn't be too long before these two bastards would be heading over to Pam and Jesse's place.

Billy casually leaned against the bar, pulled out his cell phone and sent a quick text message to Ruth Ann.

ΩΩΩ

Jesse took a final picture of the finished tattoo on Sam's back and set the camera down.

"All done, Sam."

Beaming, Pam hugged Jesse and laid a kiss on him. "It's perfect, baby."

Jesse grinned. "Yes, it is." He tossed Sam's shirt to him and watched as he drew it on, the boy wincing at the pull.

Pam saw his grimace. "You okay, Sam?"

"I'm just glad it's done." Sam buttoned up his shirt, then looked over at the kitchen door as his brother came in, green cooler in his arms.

"Car's packed. You about ready?" Dean set the cooler on the table, looked inquiringly at Sam.

"Yeah." Sam put as much enthusiasm into his voice as he could. Truth be told, he wasn't thrilled at the thought of spending hours in the car, not with his back as sore as it was. But he knew his brother was already pretty antsy about how long they'd been stuck here. Best to suck it up and get back on the road. He summoned a grin. "Let's fill that thing up."

With a look at Pam, who gave him a quick nod, Dean pulled open the refrigerator and starting transferring foil-wrapped leftovers to the cooler.

"Keep up with the aftercare, Sam." Jesse leaned around Dean and rooted around for a moment, finally coming up with the wedge of cake that Pam had put aside for him. "Keep it clean. And don't forget the lotion."

Sam nodded, looking sideways at Dean, knowing that with the tattoo's location, the aftercare would be up to his brother.

Dean saw the look and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, grabbing a foiled turkey leg out of the fridge. "I'm on it."

As Jesse sat down at the table, his cell phone rang from the counter next to the sink, AC/DC's Highway to Hell ringing out loud and clear.

Pam took a long stride, snagged the phone and tossed it to him.

Jesse caught it easily, flipped it open. "Yeah?" After a short silence, "Is he sure?"

Something in his tone alerted Dean. He turned from the refrigerator toward Jesse, green eyes intent.

"Got it." Jesse ended the call. Voice calm, he said, "You two need to get moving. Your dad's in town, at The Pony."

ΩΩΩ

Ruth Ann Hurley had been hearing stories about John Winchester for as many years as she and her brothers Billy and Connor had been hunting. Some good, some not so good. Some of them pretty damned bad.

Until she heard about the blood money he'd put out on his own sons, she'd been on the fence as to whether the man was a grief-obsessed lunatic or simply a murdering bastard. That had decided her on murdering bastard.

Which was why she'd decided to post Dare out at Jesse and Pam's place instead of having him keep watch for Winchester at The Pony. Military-trained Dare might be, and willing as hell, but he wasn't hunter-trained. Despite his baptism with that bitch witch last year, he was still a newbie with the supernatural world and she was pretty sure that in any fight between Dare and John Winchester, the younger man would end up dead. She'd as soon not have that on her conscience.

After making the call to let Jesse know that Billy had spotted their quarry, Ruth Ann entered The Pony just in time to see John Winchester pick up his chair and smash it down onto Leland Bishop's head.

The force of the blow sent the other man sagging to the floor, bloody and unconscious. Mission accomplished, Winchester dropped the chair and strode into the back hall, leaving confusion and a fuckton of shouting behind him.

"Shit!"

Moving quickly, Ruth Ann ran back out the front door, where she'd stationed Connor. When he saw her face, his hand darted into his jacket pocket and came out with his .38.

"What?" Connor's growl was basso profundo.

"Winchester," Ruth Ann said tersely. "He's out back."

Billy ran eagerly out of the bar a second later. The three siblings, guns in hand, ran around the bar toward the rear parking lot, where they were greeted by the sudden loud roar of a diesel engine and a pair of headlights heading directly for them.

All three leapt out of the way. The big black truck missed Connor and Ruth Ann, but one of the bumpers caught Billy on the thigh and sent him spinning to the side with a hoarse cry of pain.

"Billy!" Heart in her throat, Ruth Ann ran to her little brother. Crouching down next to where he lay, one leg twisted awkwardly beneath him, she swiftly pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911.

Connor started to run after the truck, but as it pulled ahead he stopped and took careful hard-eyed aim, putting several shots through its rear window.

The truck swerved, side-swiping several vehicles, but kept moving forward, speed increasing until it roared out of the parking lot and disappeared down the road.

Ignoring the shouted questions of a few pissed off Pony patrons who'd been drawn outside by the sound of gunfire and metal on metal, Connor ran back toward the rear parking lot.

"Fuck!" Dizzy with pain, Billy tried not to scream and failed. "FUCK!"

Connor knelt next to his brother and took hold of his hand, holding on tight.

"Hang on, Billy. We gotcha. Hang on."

ΩΩΩ

At Jesse's bleak words, Sam stared at Jesse in wide-eyed shock, unable to move.

A growling command from Dean got him moving again and he followed a fast-moving, cooler-toting Dean out the kitchen door, Pam and Jesse close behind.

When they reached the Impala, Dean tossed the cooler into the back seat and Sam slid hurriedly into the passenger seat.

Jesse handed him a couple of bottles through the open car door. "Here's your stuff. Don't forget, lotion, morning and night. If you -" He heard the distinctive sound of his cell phone, which he'd left in the house. "Oh, damn it all to hell!" He ran for the open kitchen door.

Pam leaned into the car and kissed Sam lightly on the cheek as Dean slid into the driver's seat.

Sam gave her a clumsy hug. "Thanks, Pam."

"No problem, sweetie." She grinned. "You can owe me."

She stepped back and shut the passenger door as Dare appeared beside the Impala, panting slightly from his run from the woods.

"Ruth Ann's gonna call us when your dad leaves The Pony," he said. "You should have enough time to get clear."

"Thanks, Dare." Dean was itching to get moving. "Guys –"

Pam gave the roof of the Impala a slap and stepped back. "Call when you can. You're always welcome. Now you two get the hell out of here."

ΩΩΩ

Dean tapped his fingers nervously on the steering wheel as they turned out of Pam's driveway. Just two or three miles and they could pick up the highway. By the time their dad left the Pony, they'd be long gone.

Despite the danger, he felt a familiar thrill as the Impala's wheels ate up the road. Their father might be hot on their trail, money-hungry ass hats gunning for them and mother-humping demons sniffing them out, but at least they were out of that fucking basement.

Adrenaline jazzing through him, he grinned at Sam. "Back on the road, little brother!"

"At least he waited until the tat was fin - " Sam sat bolt upright and grabbed onto his brother's arm. "Dean!"

Dean's eyes snapped forward and he went white at the sight of the black pickup looming up on the road ahead of them. A man stood in front of its headlights, holding a shotgun. Teeth bared in a hellish grin, he raised the weapon and pointed it right at them.

John Winchester.

Dad.

Cursing, Dean stepped hard on the brake and twisted the steering wheel into a brutal tire-screaming turn, holding it until the black car was facing back the way they'd come.

As he hit the gas again and the Impala started to move, a shotgun blast took out the rear window and glass sprayed over them. Sam lurched forward and hit the dashboard, and then sagged back onto the seat with a low groan.

"Sam!"

No time, no damned time! With a frantic look at his injured brother, Dean hit the accelerator again, hard, and the Impala surged forward, fishtailing wildly across the road. For a minute, it was 50/50 whether they stayed on the road at all, but Baby delivered.

Once the car was straightened out, Dean's eyes flicked back and forth from Sam's bloody shoulder to the many cuts decorating his dazed face and then back to the rearview mirror, looking for signs of pursuit.

"Sam?" he said urgently. "Sam!"

"I'm okay, Dean -" Panting, Sam managed to sit up, bracing himself against the passenger door, ignoring his tat's screech. "Shit - I'm – I'm okay." He reached up to his shoulder, drew his hand back bloody.

"Are you shot?"

The car started to slow and Sam said hoarsely, "No! Don't stop - it's okay. Keep going!"

Dean accelerated again, nerves screaming. "How bad?"

"I - think it went through."

Dean checked the rear view again. Still nothing. "We can't stop to find out, Sammy." Cursing under his breath, he pulled out a handkerchief and handed it toward his brother. "Hold this against it."

Sam nodded weakly and worked it underneath his shirt, pressing the cloth hard against the wound, lips whitening at the pain. Struggling to keep his voice even, he said, "Call Pam and Jesse. He might go back there."

Nodding, Dean fumbled out his cell phone, called Jesse and quickly told him what had happened. Once he disconnected, he kept his attention divided between his injured brother and the rear view mirror, trying to think what the hell he was going to do.

The only thing he knew for sure was that they had to get off this damned road and find some place to lie low so he could fix Sammy's shoulder. Not to mention the damned glass. Plus he was pretty sure he had some cuts of his own, 'cause, yeah, his face stung like crazy and was, damn it, bleeding.

Fucking Dad.

There was still no sign of headlights behind them, but Dean knew that wouldn't last long. Dad would be coming up behind them soon and he'd be bringing hell with him.

"Dean?"

Face grim, he looked over at Sam, whose own face carried a shadow of worry along with the pain. "Dean, the tat. What if it's –"

Dean's eyes went to Sam's shoulder. Shit. "It'll be okay, Sammy," he said, trying for confident sincerity. "It doesn't look like it hit anywhere near the tat. We'll check on it once we stop."

Sam nodded and settled back against the door, eyes drooping closed.

Dean's eyes focused once more on the road ahead. His foot pressed down harder on the gas.

Damn it, they had to get off this road!


	20. Chapter 20

ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ

Jesse turned into the hospital drive, tires squealing. In minutes he and Pam were in the small facility's emergency waiting room, empty except for the desk nurse and an extremely angry Ruth Ann Hurley.

"His leg's broken. Compound fracture." Ruth's red hair was a tangled mess around her exhausted face. "They have to operate."

Pam paled. Billy was a good friend. She put her hand into Jesse's and he squeezed it comfortingly.

"Where's Connor?" he asked.

Ruth jerked her chin toward the swinging doors leading to the exam rooms. "Nurse came out and got him. Billy was asking for him."

Knowing Ruth wouldn't welcome any comfort or condolences, and needing a minute to get hold of her own distress at the news, Pam said, "I'm going for coffee. You two want some?"

Both nodded. Pam went up on her tiptoes to give Jesse a quick kiss and strode quickly down the hall to where the coffee machine lived.

Jesse and Ruth sat down on a couple of the room's sturdy, plastic chairs and she started to give him the down and dirty on what had happened at The Pony.

"It's bad. Son of a bitch drove straight at Billy. Could've killed him," she said bleakly. "The other guy, the bounty hunter Winchester clocked, doc says he's not gonna make it. His head was stove in. I heard the paramedic talking. Said his brain was leaking out." She was white around the mouth.

"Oh, man."

"Shit happens." She scowled. "And if me and Connor get our way, Winchester's gonna find that out first hand."

Pam came back into the room, no coffee in hand. Crossing back to them, she said, "Sorry, guys, the machine's bro –"

She stopped midsentence and the three turned in unison as the E.R. doors swung open and Connor stalked into the room, eyes blazing out of a starkly pale face.

With a muttered ejaculation, Ruth ran to him. "What's wrong? Is it Billy? Is he –?"

"They took him upstairs to prep him for the operation," Connor said tersely. With a wary look at the nurse on the desk, he grabbed his sister by the arm and steered her back toward Pam and Jesse. "Hold on, sis. This shit's not for civilians."

With a quick jerk of his head, Connor led them all outside, and the four of them clustered together in a tight circle out in the parking lot.

"His eyes were black," Connor said flatly. Tension practically shimmered in the air around him. "Billy said his eyes were black."

"What?" Ruth said, confused. "Whose eyes – "

"Winchester, Ruthie!" Connor said sharply. "His eyes. Billy saw them just before the truck hit him. That's why he was slow getting out of the way. Winchester's eyes were black!"

ΩΩΩ

John Winchester slammed the door of his truck and glared at the disabled vehicle, black eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

What a pain in the damned ass.

Leaving the Pony, his truck had been hit by at least three bullets. Two had spent themselves harmlessly in the interior of the truck. The third had pierced the engine block. He'd managed to nurse it far enough to get into Sam and Dean's path, but it was as dead as a fucking doornail now.

With a glance up and down the dark, deserted road, John blew out a disgusted breath, slung his shotgun over his shoulder and started walking back towards town.

ΩΩΩ

The longer the road behind them stayed dark, the harder it was for Dean not to hope that they'd somehow lost their father.

He fought against that hope, mostly because it didn't make any damn sense.

Where the hell was the man? He should've been right behind them. Was he hanging back just out of sight, waiting until they stopped? Had he somehow gotten ahead of them? Or – hell, had he gone back to Pam and Jesse's?

That thought turned him cold and he had to fight not to turn the car around and go back.

He looked at his brother, half-dozing beside him. The most important thing was to get Sam out of here.

Jesse, Pam, Dare.

Dean's hands tightened on the steering wheel.

They'd be fine. They had to be.

A car blasted past them, coming from the other direction and Sam roused, wind from the shattered rear window ruffling his dark hair. "Everything okay?" he mumbled.

Dean nodded. "We're good." He couldn't help flicking another look in the rearview mirror. Still dark.

A road sign flashed by on the right. The highway exit was just a couple of miles further up the road.

"We're almost to the highway," he said in relief.

"Good." Sam started to reach for something in the back seat, then stopped with a visible wince. "Crap."

"What is it? You need something?"

Sam nodded in apology. "Can you hand me a bottle of water?"

"Sure, Sammy." Dean reached over and fumbled around in the cooler until he hooked a bottle of water.

Sam took a couple of swallows, then rested the bottle on his thigh with a sigh. "No sign of him."

"Not yet."

Moving slowly, Sam zipped up his jacket, shivering a little. "Where are we heading?"

"Just trying to get some distance between us. If we make the highway before he comes up with us, we're clear."

Sam took another swallow of water, then laid his head back on the headrest. A visible shudder ran over him.

"You okay, Sammy? You cold?" Dean didn't wait for an answer, just reached into the back again, this time finding a blanket and draping it one-handed over his brother.

Sam sighed at the welcome warmth. "Thanks, Dean."

"How's your shoulder?"

"Think it stopped bleeding. It's okay." Sighing, Sam gave into Dean's obvious disbelief. "Yeah, all right, it hurts like a bitch. But I'm okay."

"Want something for it?" Dean started to reach into the back again.

"Not yet. Want to stay awake for now. Just in case."

They rode in silence until they reached the highway turn-off and pulled onto it. There were just a couple of cars on the road besides theirs. None of them was a big, black truck with their dad inside.

"We'll get some more miles behind us, then find a motel and take care of your shoulder," Dean said, brow furrowed in thought. "We just have to figure out where the hell to go after that."

"How about back to the beach?" Sam said after a short silence, trying to insert a little levity into the situation. "Dad wouldn't expect that."

"Sure wouldn't." Dean smirked at the thought of their father searching miles of endless sandy beaches for them.

"You and Shayla could hook up again." A grin teased the edge of Sam's tired mouth.

"Kayla, smart ass," Dean corrected him. "Nah. We can't go back to Florida. But no reason we can't go to Texas. Galveston, maybe? Water's warm there."

Sam started to laugh, then stopped, uncertain. "Are you serious?"

"Why not? We need some down time, let that shoulder of yours heal up. No reason not to do it lying on a sunny beach. Work on our tans. Watch the girls work on theirs." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

No way in hell Sam was going shirtless on any beach, ever again. He saw no reason to tell his brother that.

"That sounds great, Dean." He had a sudden thought. "Hey, what about Mexico?"

"Mexico?" Dean echoed.

"Sure. Dad's Spanish sucks. That's why he doesn't like to hunt there."

"Our Spanish sucks too, bro."

"Yeah, but –" Sam winced as he shifted, brought the blanket up under his chin. "Between us we know enough to get by."

"Something to think about." Dean cast a glance at him. "Motel first, though." He smirked. "You're getting blood all over my Baby."

Sam rolled his eyes and started to say something snarky, but a ring from Dean's cell on the seat between them cut him off.

Sam picked it up and looked at the display.

"Not Dad, is it?" Dean asked, only half joking.

"Jesse." Sam accepted the call. "Hey, man. You guys okay?"

There was a rapid-fire response on the other end of the line. It went on for quite a while.

Sam listened intently, all signs of earlier levity gone. As the call continued, he sat up straight, ignoring the sharp twinge in his shoulder, and the blanket fell unheeded into his lap.

When Jesse paused for breath, Sam said quietly, "Can you repeat that last part, please?" His voice was oddly formal.

Dean looked over at him curiously. A chill crept over him at the odd look on his brother's face.

"Okay," Sam said after another minute. "Yeah, got it. Thanks. What? Yeah, we'll call."

He ended the call without a good-bye. Fumbling a little, he put it back on the seat.

"Sam?"

"Pull the car over, Dean."

Even in the darkness of the car, Dean could see how white his brother's face was.

"Why? What's –"

"Just pull over. I don't want you crashing the car when I tell you what I have to tell you."

Dean didn't push it, just pulled over to the side of the road and cut the lights. "What is it?"

Sam told him what had happened at The Pony. Told him about the assault on the bounty hunter. About Billy. He told him that the bounty hunter had died minutes ago at the hospital.

Then Sam stopped and took a painful breath, wanting above all else not to have to deal his brother this final blow.

"What is it?" Dean asked apprehensively. "Did Dad hurt someone else? Is it – it's not Pam, is it?"

Sam shook his head. "Pam's fine. Jesse said –" He stumbled to a halt. "Jesse said that Dad's been possessed by a demon."


	21. Chapter 21

ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ

Dean couldn't speak, could barely think. The image of black eyes in his father's face all but consumed him.

Sam said something, but Dean had no idea what it was. Fumbling with the door, he almost fell out of the car once he managed to open it. Righting himself, he stumbled to the front of the car and bent over, gasping for breath, trying not to puke his dinner all over the road.

He heard the crunch of Sam's footsteps in the gravel and held up a hand. "No."

Sam hesitated, then they both stiffened at the sound of an approaching car, and an SUV came barreling down the road. Its lights flickered over them as it came level and, with a quick blat of its horn, it disappeared down the road, both boys staring after it.

Dean straightened and leaned shakily against the car. "Shit."

"Dean, we can't do this here!" Sam's voice had an unsteady edge to it. "We need to – damn it, just get back in the fucking car!"

Once they were both back in the car, the tension between them was palpable.

Sam's brain was churning through the various and deadly permutations of what John's possession could bring. Dean, a bit past the shock of the news, was gripping the steering wheel like he wanted to strangle it.

"We should have known," Dean grated out finally. "We should have fucking known."

Sam, shoulder throbbing relentlessly, turned his face away and stared out the passenger window,

With an angry curse, Dean started the car and pulled the Impala back onto the little two-lane highway.

There was no discussion about where they needed to go now.

ΩΩΩ

Bobby was rummaging around in the guts of a beat-to-hell 1957 Morris Minor - a seriously sweet ride in its day - when he heard the Impala's unmistakable throaty growl coming up the drive.

Straightening, he wiped the sweat off of his face with his sleeve and squinted toward the house to see the big black car just pulling in. Dean and Sam climbed out and started for the house, but the older boy spotted Bobby in the yard and changed direction, heading for him at a fast clip. Sam trailed behind his brother at a much slower pace.

When Dean reached him, Bobby pulled a rag out of his back pocket and wiped his hands. "What the hell are you two doing here?"

"Dad's possessed!" Dean half-shouted.

Bobby blanched. "What?"

The story spilled out, with no space for Bobby to ask any questions and Dean hardly any room to breathe.

Sam came up to them just as Dean finished running through their latest shitstorm, his young face strangely listless considering the amount of drama his brother was throwing around.

"Damn," Bobby was stunned. "That's - bad."

"Bad?" Dean was incredulous. "Bad? What the hell, Bobby!" He looked for backup from Sam, who looked away with an indistinct mumble.

"Calm down, boy" Bobby snapped irritably. "No need to jump down my damned throat. You've had some time to get used to the idea. I just found out ten seconds ago!"

"Bobby." Dean was desperate. This was no time to think, or plan. They had to move. "We gotta help him!"

Bobby put a gentling hand on his shoulder. "We will, Dean."

Dean nodded and made a visible effort to calm himself. "How?"

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Hell, boy, I don't know! We'll figure it out." He looked over at Sam and paused, frowning at the boy's distinct pallor. "Sam, you okay?"

Sam nodded. "I'm good," he said, the words belied by the tremor in his voice.

Recognizing Winchester crap when he heard it, Bobby looked him over and saw a very suspicious-looking stain on the shoulder of his jacket.

"What the hell is that?"

Confused, Sam looked down at himself. "Uh . . ." Nothing else came out. Whitening even more, he reached out to steady himself on the Morris's hood.

"Bobby," Dean said impatiently. "What about Dad? What do –"

"Are you kidding me?" Disbelieving, Bobby glared at Dean. "Take a look at your brother, you damned fool!"

Dean did, and his eyes widened in dismay. "Oh, shit." Moving fast, he got an arm around Sam just in time to keep him from bouncing off the Morris and into the dirt. "Shit, Sammy, I'm sorry, I forgot - ! Why didn't you say something?"

"I'm okay, just a little tired." Sam was a good liar, except when it came to Dean. He did his best, but it was ruined when his eyes sighed shut and he rested his head against his brother's shoulder.

With a guilty grimace at Bobby, Dean got Sam turned around and headed back to the house.

Bobby stood staring after them, chewing over what Dean had told him. Then, deciding that a couple of stiff drinks might help the news go down a little easier, he followed them to the house.

ΩΩΩ

Dean cleaned Sam's shoulder wound. cursing himself the whole time for not stopping earlier to take care of it. Then he got some Gatorade down his brother, along with a couple of painkillers, and tucked him into bed.

Once Sam was safely asleep, which didn't take more than about thirty seconds once his head hit the pillow, Dean went looking for Bobby and found him in his study.

"Bobby –"

Bobby held up a forestalling finger. Pouring a couple of whiskeys, he handed one to Dean.

"As a general rule, you take damned good care of your brother," he said gruffly, "which is why my boot is not currently up your ass." He dropped back into his chair with a weary sigh. "We need to talk."

ΩΩΩ

A wide grin on his face, Kubrick pulled out his cell phone.

Fifty thousand big ones! Man, the fun he was gonna have with that!

Ha!

He'd known it would be a good idea to keep an eye on Singer's place, and he'd been proven right.

Sure, he might have had to camp out in his car for a few days, living on beef jerky, Twinkies and beer, but it had been freaking worth it!

The Winchester boys, both of 'em, driving up to Singer's place in broad daylight, just as pretty as you please. Didn't get any easier than that. Or sweeter.

Scrolling through his contact list, he smirked. Too bad Gordon had run him off. Dumb damned move. Not having his old pard around to watch his back had straight up gotten him killed.

Just as well, though. Now he wouldn't have to share the dinero!

He found John Winchester's cell number, listening as his call rang on the other end several times before finally going to voicemail.

The message he left was short and sweet.

"I got your boys. Call me."

Disconnecting, he did a little happy dance over to his cooler and pulled out another beer, pulling back the tab and sucking back a healthy swig.

Las Vegas, here I come!

ΩΩΩ

Sam loved Bobby's house.

For as long as he could remember, it had been his and Dean's refuge, a safe place where they had enough food to eat, a warm place to sleep, and they didn't have to worry about CPS snatching them up. It had been a taste of normal that Sam had never gotten enough of.

When he woke in the bedroom which was always theirs on their visits, it was dark outside and the moon was well up. A glass of water and a turkey sandwich sat on the bedside table. He drank the water down thirstily and eyed the sandwich, but left it untouched.

After using the bathroom, he dressed, favoring his shoulder a bit, and then shuffled out of the bedroom to look for his brother, finding him at the kitchen table with Bobby. There was a half-empty bottle of whiskey between the two of them, along with the remains of the pie that Pamela had sent with them.

"Hey, Sammy." Dean nudged the pie plate forward. There was one piece left; a very small piece. "Want some?"

Sam considered it, decided he didn't want the pie any more than he'd wanted the sandwich. "Nah. You can have it."

Dean gave a gleeful chortle and picked up his fork.

"You puke, you're cleaning it up," Bobby said shortly as Dean started to shovel it in. "Feeling better?" he asked Sam.

Sam started to shrug, stopped with a wince as the movement tweaked his shoulder. "Yeah, I'm good. Not a big deal." He dropped into a chair. "Dean told you what happened."

"He did." Bobby sighed. "And I'm guessing we'll have your daddy here in the next day or so."

"Someone still watching the house?" Dean contributed through the last mouthful of pie.

"Pretty sure it's the same one came here before, with Gordon." Bobby lifted one shoulder, dropped it. "He would've called John soon as he saw you."

"Good," Dean said with satisfaction. "The sooner Dad gets here, the sooner we can get that demon out of him."

Though it was in fact what Sam had been expecting, he felt cold inside at the thought of facing John, possessed or not. Standing back up, he went to the stove and poured himself a cup of steaming coffee, his back to the others as he listened.

"Me and Bobby have got devil's traps all over the place; salt traps, too." Dean ran over the afternoon in his head, trying to think of anything they might have missed. "We're ready for him."

Bobby grunted. He didn't know that he agreed with Dean. If they could get the drop on John, or run him into one of the traps they'd secreted around the property, yeah, they had a good chance of exorcising the demon. But - well, if not, someone could end up dead. And, if it did go that way, he was going to do his best to make sure it wasn't one of these boys, or himself, that got dead.

Bobby kept that thought to himself. Dean could get a little shirty when someone pissed on his parade.

Another worry was that Dean was so focused on his dad's predicament he didn't have clue one that Sam looked to be running around inside his own head like a rabid hamster on crack. Bobby knew. And he knew why.

Dean was thinking that if they got the demon out of John, they'd have their father back and things would go back to Winchester normal.

That wasn't gonna happen.

John might be possessed now, but that secret journal of his had gone back several years. It was unlikely, no, it was impossible, for John to have been possessed for all those years. Demons didn't treat their hosts kindly; he'd have been dead long before now. And, in the unlikely event he'd been possessed by the freaking St. Francis of demons, there was no way Bobby, or some other hunter, wouldn't have twigged as to what was going on, way before now.

So, the journal, which made clear his fears about his youngest son, and his deadly intentions toward him, had been written by John, and John alone. No demon assistance needed.

The boys going back to John? Not gonna happen.

His eyes cut over to Sam, who'd gone back to sit beside his brother, listening quietly as Dean excitedly expounded on the plan to free their father.

Sam would never go back to John.

Not even if it meant losing his brother.


	22. Chapter 22

ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ

The night wore on.

Sam spent most of it in Bobby's study working his way through some of Bobby's more esoteric tomes, looking for something to give them an edge, exorcism-wise. Dean and Bobby hung out in the kitchen, working their way through a bottle of whiskey, discussing the ins and outs of putting together a panic room in Bobby's basement, and figuring out which wards and sigils might work best to keep out demons and other fuglies.

"Problem is," Bobby said with a grimace, "you don't know it's failed until the demon's in." He shrugged. "Then you're screwed."

"And not in a good way." Dean snickered.

Bobby laughed.

After a moment of quiet contemplation, he said, "Dean, I know we've talked about this before, but your brother –"

Dean interrupted, scowling. "Sam is fine. It's just been a little rough the last few weeks." His tone was a little sharp. "For both of us."

"Rough?" Bobby snorted. "Dean, Sam's father tried to kill him. A couple of psycho hunters tried to kill him. The kid's got demon blood inside him and a demon's been haunting his dreams. And now maybe that same demon is on its way here to claim Sam's soul. Or kill him." He shook his head. "Rough."

Dean suddenly looked a lot older than his mere twenty years. "Like I said, he's fine. All we can do is meet 'em as they come."

Bobby nodded and the two sat silently over their whiskey.

"One thing I'm not getting," Bobby said presently, frowning slightly. "The demon spent a hell of a lot of time fixing things so Sam would end up leader of his demon army. Why's he trying to kill him now?"

Dean stared at him, surprised. Shocked, even. "I never thought of that," he said slowly. "There's been so much shit happening, we just kinda lumped them all in together."

"Think about it. If those two in Florida had taken Sam, he'd be dead now. And the bounty John offered, well, men going after that kind of money aren't too careful about where their bullets end up." Bobby picked up the bottle, topped off their glasses. "And John, shooting up the Impala, with you two in it? How the hell does any of that get the demon what he wants?"

"I dunno." Dean dropped his head into his hands. "God, I'm so sick of this shit," he mumbled. "I just want –" He stopped at the sound of approaching footsteps. Sam appeared at the kitchen door, a guarded expression on his face as he looked between the two men.

"Something wrong?" Dean started to get up.

Sam waved him back down. "I have an idea how to get Dad into one of those traps." He hesitated. "You're probably not gonna like it."

ΩΩΩ

Kripke stared morosely at the smoke curling up from the chimney of Bobby Singer's house, his threadbare jacket doing nothing to keep off the morning chill.

Stomping his feet on the frozen ground, trying to warm up, he looked morosely at the half-eaten Slim Jim in his hand, sighed and stuffed the last of it into his mouth.

This sucked. Sucked. Sucked. Soon as Winchester got here, with his money, he was out of here and Vegas-bound. He was gonna get a room, no, a suite, in one of those fancy hotels. Some steak, a case of good whiskey, a woman - he wouldn't be coming up for air until the last penny was spent. A happy smile played around the corners of his mouth.

Contemplating the pleasures to come, he didn't have time to do more than blink when a pair of strong hands gripped the sides of his head and twisted, breaking his neck in one swift, decisive movement.

John Winchester let the body fall to the ground, not wasting another thought on it.

Playtime was over. Time to bring Sam Winchester in.

He'd like to play with him some more – damn, that boy was fun to mess with - but orders were orders. He'd already pushed it as far as he dared. Probably farther than he should have.

Maybe, though, after he delivered the younger boy to the boss, he could have some fun with Dean. That had some definite possibilities.

A door slammed in the distance and he heard loud voices.

John moved quickly toward the house.

ΩΩΩ

"Damn it, Sam, just wait a freaking minute!"

Fists clenched, Sam faced off against his brother in the middle of the yard. "You said it would be us, just us," he said accusingly.

Dean swiped an agitated hand through his spiky hair. "Damn it, Sam, this isn't the time –"

"When is the time?" Sam laughed raggedly. "When Dad's back?" His voice ratcheted up even higher. "You promised! But the first chance you get, you go running back to him!"

Dean's face darkened. "That's not fair."

"Fuck fair! You lied to me!"

"I never – "

"Bullshit! You're going back to Dad, gonna let him call all the shots. It won't be you and me anymore, it'll be you and him. I'll be on the outside, just like before!" His voice broke.

Dean held out a hesitant hand. "Sammy . . . "

Sam's agitation increased. "Screw you, Dean," he spat. He turned and stomped across the yard toward the garage.

"Sam!" Dean started after him.

Bobby drew him back, muttering something into his ear. With a last uneasy glance after Sam as he disappeared into the garage, Dean followed the older man back into the house.

ΩΩΩ

John crept through the shadowy garage, following the sounds of hoarse, ragged breathing. As he came around the side of an old beater, he saw Sam sitting on the floor near the back of the garage, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. Head tilted back against a wall, the shivering boy's eyes were shut tight, seemingly unaware of everything around him.

John drew closer, carefully avoiding the occasional car parts littering the ground. When he was just a few feet away, he deliberately kicked an empty oil can across the floor. It skidded into Sam's feet and the boy raised his head. His face was deathly pale.

"Hey, Sam," John said with a mocking grin. "Miss me?"

Sam let out a shuddering breath. "Not so much."

"You shouldn't have run." John's tone was contemptuous. "Just made things harder."

Sam didn't answer.

"Well, let's get going. Won't be long before your brother comes looking for you."

Sam just looked at him. "I'm not going with you. Ever."

John took a menacing step forward, then came to an abrupt, baffled halt. "What the hell – "

Sam looked up and John followed his gaze. A devil's trap was painted on the ceiling directly above him.

John's eyes snapped back to Sam. "You little shit. How the hell did you know?"

"Does it matter?" Sam looked past John. The big man spun around to see Bobby and Dean standing several feet away. With a growl he threw himself at them, but the invisible barrier of the trap threw him back.

"I can't believe it!" Dean said mockingly. "I thought we'd have to throw out our line a few times to draw in the big fish, and here we get you first time out!"

John glared at him. "Fuck you."

"Ew, gross. No, thanks." Dean looked past his father to Sam. "Good idea, Sammy."

Sam climbed heavily to his feet. "Let's just get this done."

"Get what done?" John sneered. His eyes went demon black when Bobby pulled a small, worn book out of his coat. "What's that?"

"Guess." Bobby smirked as John hissed out an obscenity.

Dean came to the edge of the trap. "Dad? If you can hear me, we're gonna get you out."

"How do you even know he's still alive in here?" The demon sneered. "He's been pretty quiet lately."

"You'd better hope he's alive," Dean said, voice menacing. "If he's dead, even Hell won't be able to hide you." He gave Bobby a nod.

Clearing his throat, Bobby started to read out loud, the familiar Latin rolling smoothly off his tongue.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii, omnis legio . . . "

"No!" John threw himself against the barrier. It threw him back again, and the big man crouched at bay, face twisted with rage and desperation.

". . . omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica . . . "

"No! NO!"

Dean standing firm beside him, Bobby raised his voice against the demon's howls.

"Adjuramus te. Cessa decipere humanas creaturas,eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare . . . "

John turned to face Sam. The boy flinched, pressing himself back against the wall.

"This doesn't change anything, Sammy. You're still ours! You'll never be free –" He convulsed with pain and fell to the ground. Gasping for air, he kept his eyes trained on Sam, who stared back at him, transfixed, unable to move.

"You will beg for death," John panted, Bobby's stern voice almost drowning him out. "But He will not grant it." He groaned, clutching himself in agony. "You will serve – you will serve – "

". . . Benedictus deus. Gloria patri!"

The demon's poisonous spew cut off as Bobby shouted out the last of the exorcism and the big man collapsed onto his back. A noxious black cloud burst out of his open mouth, funneling into the air above them, and then shot out an open window, an unearthly wail trailing behind.

"Dad!" Dean started forward, panicked eyes on the motionless body of his father.

Bobby grabbed his arm. "Hold on!" He looked warily at the motionless man and pulled a battered flask out of his coat pocket. "Use some holy water on him."

"Bobby, he – "

"Damn it, boy, do it!"

Hand trembling, Dean tossed a good splash of holy water into the circle and onto his prostrate father.

John didn't move.

Bobby released Dean and the young man threw himself into the circle and onto his knees next to his father, thrusting trembling fingers against John's neck.

After a few seconds his shoulders slumped, and he looked up at Sam, green eyes shining with tears of relief. "He's alive!"

Sam tried to smile back. It felt stiff and unnatural on his face but Dean, focused again on his father, didn't notice.

Muttering ragged reassurances, Dean raised his father up to a sitting position, the older man's head drooping forward onto his chest.

"Dad?" Dean shook him gently. "Dad!"

John remained insensible and Dean looked desperately at Bobby. "Help me get him into the house."

With a quick look at Sam, who had yet to budge from his place against the wall, Bobby helped Dean wrestle John to his feet, and the two men lugged him to the side entrance of the garage.

Dean stopped at the door and cast an anxious look back at his brother. "Sam, come on!"

Face pallid, dark eyes huge, Sam raised an unsteady hand, waving them on. "I'll be there in a minute."

Dean hesitated. "Sammy - "

"I'm okay, Go." Sam was saved from having to argue with his brother when John groaned weakly and raised his head.

"Dad!"

"Dean?" John looked at his eldest son, eyes confused and bleary.

Dean's face shone with relief. "Dad, the demon's gone, you're free!"

John tried to smile, then swayed a bit, nearly going to his knees,

"Can we have this reunion inside?" Bobby grunted, hauling the big man back up. "He weighs a ton."

The three of them left the garage without another backward glance.

ΩΩΩ


	23. Chapter 23

ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ

Desperately glad to be alone, Sam closed his eyes and sagged against the garage wall, the demon's words echoing in his head.

You will serve.

Serve who? What?

A wave of nausea swept over him and with a violent spasm his morning coffee and a side order of bile rose in his throat to spew out onto the ground.

When it was over, he stared stupidly down at the mess on the ground, then shuddered and made his way out of the garage. He stood in the yard, halfway between the garage and the house, breathing in the cold air and trying to clear his brain.

Dean.

He was losing Dean.

John would talk his brother around. He'd always been able to. And now that he had the excuse of a demon being the one that had tried to kill Sam, and not John himself, Dean would forgive him.

Then, sooner or later, Dean would see the wisdom of dumping his demon brother. After all, sticking with Sam would only get him killed. Or worse, dragged to Hell along with him. Because that's where Sam was going to end up.

Demon blood - that pretty much guaranteed him an express ticket down below, didn't it?

A sharp wind blew through the yard and he shivered, zipping up his jacket. He'd stick it out, for as long as he could; stay with his family until he couldn't stand it anymore. Then – he didn't know what, then.

He looked resignedly toward the house. Might as well go in. Face it. Face Dad. Rip that band-aid right the hell off, like Dean had taught him.

There was the soft scrape of a boot behind him and a voice, thick with anger and smug satisfaction.

"Turn around, you fuck!"

Sam started to turn. He heard a shout from the house, then an explosion.

Sam's world turned white.

ΩΩΩ

It was a long trip back.

John could hear muffled voices that came in and out, but it was hard to focus on them. His brain was a kaleidoscope of tortured, fragmented images, endlessly replaying, driving him back into the darkness.

Someone raised his head and held a cup to his mouth. The cup nudged his lips open and tipped in some water. He choked a little before his body remembered how to drink, then gulped thirstily.

Water. Sweet, cold and wonderful. It pulled him back a little bit more from the darkness; he hung there, uncertain and afraid.

"Dad?"

John managed to pry his eyes open just enough to see Dean hovering over him.

"Dad!" Dean broke into a relieved smile.

"What . . . what's happening?"

"You're all right, Dad," Dean reassured him. "We got rid of that fucking demon."

"Demon?" his father mumbled, confused.

"Don't you remember?"

John stared uncomprehendingly at him. Slowly, painfully, his splintered memories startled to coalesce. With a sudden, painful jolt, they came together, and he closed his eyes reflexively, gagging.

Dean squeezed his father's hand. "Dad, it's over now."

"Never, I would never hurt you boys," John said desperately. He struggled to rise.

Dean pressed him back down onto the couch. "Take it easy, Dad. Give yourself a minute."

"Where's Sam?" John demanded.

Bobby appeared behind Dean. "He's in the garage. He'll be in soon."

"Bobby."

John's voice held a fervent plea, something Bobby had never heard from him before. Pity in his eyes, he nodded. "I'll get him."

John lay back and listened to Bobby's footsteps as he left the study and paced down the hall toward the front door.

"Dad?"

John looked apprehensively at Dean. "Sam – is he . . ."

Dean's face held a complex mix of worry and guilt. "He's pretty messed up, Dad."

"I need to see him, Dean, I have to tell him – "

"SAM!"

Bobby's shout echoed throughout the house, the report of a gunshot following close on its heels.

"Sam!" Dean wrenched his hand from John's grip, yanking his gun out from underneath his coat. As he bolted from the room, the boom of Bobby's shotgun filled the house.

Heart banging in his throat, Dean came out the front door at a dead run. When he hit the yard, he almost went to his knees at the sight of Sam lying small, still and bloody in the middle of the yard.

"Sammy?" Fear bitter in his mouth, Dean ran to his brother. Dropping to his knees beside him, he reached out a trembling hand and touched his face. "Sam?"

Sam didn't move. Didn't open his eyes. Didn't grin up at his fool of an older brother, laughing at the terrible trick he'd played.

Unable to move, unable to breathe, Dean's mind raced frantically, trying to find a way out of this unspeakable hell. This couldn't be. Couldn't.

A tentative hand touched his shoulder. Dazed, he looked up.

Shotgun hanging loose in his hand, Bobby stared down at him. "Bastard got away, over the fence." He looked down at Sam's still form, his face set in harsh, grief-stricken lines. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so damned sorry."

"No. No."

Bobby crouched down beside them and laid a hand on Sam's throat. He drew in a shaky breath. "Let's get your brother into the house."

Dean ignored him, his entire being focused on Sam.

Struggling to hold it together, Bobby grabbed Dean by the arm and pulled him to his feet. "Dean. Let's get Sam into the house."

Dean looked around the cold, barren yard, and at last nodded. Bending over, he picked up Sam's upper body and waited until Bobby took his feet. Then, together, they staggered toward the house where John clung to the front door, his face a ghastly white.

As the two men passed him with their terrible burden, John started to follow, but stopped at a growled command from Bobby.

"Shut the door. And fuckin' lock it."

John nodded. Hands shaking, he fumbled the door shut and slid the bolt in, then followed them into the study.

Leaving the Winchesters standing over their boy, Bobby moved quickly to pull the curtains over the windows. Once he was sure they were hidden from the outside, he strode back to the couch.

"Dean, we're gonna need hot water and clean cloths," he ordered brusquely.

Dean looked at him dully. "What?"

"Your brother's alive, Dean."

"Alive?" Dean stared down at Sam, a fearful hope rising in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, boy. I'll explain in a minute. Don't waste time. Go. Hot water. Clean cloths."

With a desperate glance at Sam, Dean ran out of the room and they heard him pounding up the stairs.

Bobby leaned over Sam and pulled back an eyelid, grunting in satisfaction.

Legs shaking underneath him, John leaned over the couch and laid a hand on Sam's throat. Feeling a weak but steady pulse, he glared at Bobby. "What the hell?"

Ignoring the glare, Bobby went to his desk and rummaged in one of the bottom drawers for his medical kit. "Right now, we three are the only ones who know that Sam is still alive," he said shortly. "We need to keep it that way."

ΩΩΩ

The silence was dark and sweet. Sam couldn't see, couldn't hear. It didn't matter.

Nothing mattered, because he didn't hurt anymore. He just floated, warm and safe.

At peace.

After a time, things changed.

He lay on a sandy beach, basking in the heat of a midday sun, a soft breeze caressing his body. There was the sound of distant gulls on the air and the comforting pulse of the ocean.

He remembered nothing, knew nothing, was nothing.

Peace.

After a time, things changed.

"Sam?"

Sam opened his eyes. He lay in the middle of a lush green field, rife with flowers in full bloom. A single bee flying by paused and hovered in front of him for a long moment. They studied each other. Then Sam sat up and the bee gave a friendly little dip in the air and buzzed away.

Eyes following the tiny creature's progress, Sam's gaze drifted over and past a somewhat larger creature.

"Sam?"

His gaze tracked back and rested on a golden-haired woman sitting a few feet away, in the middle of a large white tablecloth.

She smiled, blue eyes glowing with happiness. "Hello, sweetheart."

After a little puzzling, Sam said tentatively, "Mom?"

"I'm so happy to see you," Mary Winchester said softly.

Sam stared at her for a beat, then his gaze floated away again, following the progress of a pair of gamboling rabbits. Presently, he caught a peripheral movement and looked over to see his mother opening a large picnic basket. She smiled at him again. "Hungry?"

Sam wasn't. He wasn't really anything, but when she started lifting food, plates and glasses out of the basket, setting them out on the tablecloth, he rose and drifted over, sitting down beside her.

She handed him a glass and he took a sip. Chocolate milk.

"I love chocolate milk."

"I know." She carefully arranged an assortment of food onto a paper plate and set it in front of him. "Eat up, now."

Sam stared blankly at the plate until Mary guided his hand to one of the sandwiches, then he ate it quietly, watching her.

"Am I dead?" he asked at last.

"No." Mary selected a piece of thickly-frosted chocolate cake and placed it on a second plate in front of him.

"Are you dead?"

She sighed and folded her hands into her lap. "Yes, Sam. I am."

Puzzled, he cocked his head to the side. "Why are you here? Why am I here with you?"

"Because it's been so very long since I've seen you." Mary laid a gentle hand on her son's forearm. "Because I wanted to see you before you go back."

"Back?" Sam chewed that over. "Back where?"

Her smile held a hint of sadness. "Back to your brother."

ΩΩΩ


	24. Chapter 24

ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ

Bobby laid a hand on Sam's forehead. It was as cool and fever-free as when he'd checked it an hour ago.

Despite the profusion of blood, the wound hadn't been as bad as it had first appeared. The boy had a concussion and a deep graze that promised one hell of a headache when he finally decided to wake up, but nothing more serious than that.

He looked over at Dean, who was waiting impatiently on the other side of the bed.

"Sam's fine, Dean. You, on the other hand, look like hammered crap."

"Bobby, it's been hours!" Dean's eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed with exhaustion. "Why isn't he waking up?"

"I told you, he'll wake up when he's ready. I'm gonna go make dinner. Why don't you try and get some rest, so when Sam does open his eyes, you'll be awake for it?"

Dean shook his head stubbornly and sat down again on the chair beside the bed.

Bobby didn't waste time trying to persuade him. He knew a lost cause when he saw one. Sighing, he patted Dean on the shoulder, then left the boy to his vigil.

ΩΩΩ

Sandwich in his hand forgotten, Sam looked at his mother. "Mom. . ."

"Yes, Sam?"

"The demon. . ."

"I know." A shadow touched Mary's face. "I'd give anything if that hadn't happened. Anything. But it did happen and there's nothing we can do to change it. All you can do is live with it, live the best life you can."

"But Dean. . ." He trailed off, staring into the sky at a flock of geese passing over them.

"It doesn't matter to Dean, Sam," she said, a touch of admonishment in her voice. "All that matters is that you're his brother. That's all he cares about. That's all he will ever care about." She laid a hand on his knee. "Listen. Can't you hear it?"

Sam started to shake his head, then stopped, brow furrowed. He could hear – something. A slight buzz at the edge of the world. More a low drone than anything else.

"What is it?"

Mary didn't answer. She just watched him, hands folded loosely in her lap.

Sam concentrated on the sound, trying to sort it out. As he listened, the noise gradually separated into sobs and broken words.

sorry – come back – you and me – come back -

Dean.

Sam looked at his mother. She put an arm around him, pressed her face against his shaggy head. "It's time to go back, sweetheart."

"It hurts there. Everything hurts, all the time." There was no self-pity in his voice, only a deep well of sadness.

"I know, love." Mary hugged him even harder, tears pooling in her eyes. "But things will get better. I promise."

"Dean . . ."

"Sam." Mary placed a finger across his lips. "Your brother will always choose you."

The utter conviction in her voice stilled the fear in Sam's heart. The certitude in her eyes gave him the strength to at least hope.

"I love you, Mom."

"I love you, too, sweetheart." Mary smiled through her tears. "But I've kept you here long enough. Listen, Sam. Just listen."

Keeping her face in his heart, Sam concentrated on the voice inside.

ΩΩΩ

Sam opened his eyes.

His head hurt, the light hurt his eyes and he needed the bathroom, bad.

None of that mattered because Dean was hovering above him, a relieved smile on his tired face.

"Hey, Sammy!" Dean said softly, squeezing his brother's hand tight. "About time you woke up. You scared the crap out of me!"

"Dean, what – " Confused and a little frightened, Sam said, "What happened?"

"You got shot, Sammy." Dean's voice was trembling. "You got shot."

"Shot?" Stunned, Sam raised his hand, touched the bandage on his aching head. "I don't remember a thing, except the garage and - Dad."

"Yeah, well, head wound. It's not bad; asshole just creased you. For a minute, though– Jesus, Sam, I thought you were dead."

Overwhelmed, Sam lay quiet, blinking up at the water-stained ceiling. Then he grimaced and started to lever himself up onto his elbows.

Quick as a wink, Dean was pressing him back down onto the bed. "Hey, where do you think you're going?"

"I'm thirsty and my head hurts." Sam shifted uncomfortably. "But if I don't get to the can now, I'm gonna pee all over you."

Dean gave a surprised bark of laughter and little snorts of relieved amusement kept trickling out as he escorted Sam to the bathroom. He hovered outside the open door while his brother relieved himself and, when Sam wavered on the way back to his room, Dean put an arm around his waist, taking most of his weight. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. Let go, I can walk."

"Forget it, Samantha. Shot, remember?"

"Dean, I'm –" Sam broke off. Behind his brother's teasing, he could see evidence of the strain of the day. "Okay." Truthfully, he was glad for the support.

Once he was back in bed, Sam lay back against the pillow, feeling drained. "Water?"

Dean picked up a bottle from the bedside table, handed it to his brother. "Take it slow." He watched as Sam took a couple of swallows. "How's your head?"

"It's fine."

Dean gave him a skeptical look.

"It aches a little," Sam admitted. "And I'm tired."

"You need some more sleep?"

Sam's smile was small, but real. "Rather hang out with you. You can tell me what's going on."

Dean grinned back at him. "Not much to tell. You were shot and I was going nuts. That's pretty much it."

"Did you guys catch whoever, uh, shot me?" Sam said tentatively.

Dean's face darkened. "We will. It's gonna be a race who shoots the fucker first, me or Bobby." He blew out a breath. "But don't worry, Sammy, the asshole thinks you're dead. He won't be back."

"Is, uh, Dad -?"

"He's okay."

Sam tried to glean something from the non-expression on Dean's face, but there was nothing to be had. "What does that mean?"

"He's been on the phone pretty much nonstop once we knew you were gonna be okay."

"Doing what?"

"No clue." Dean shifted uneasily and went for a change in subject. "You hungry?"

"Uh uh."

Dean's face fell. "Okay, maybe later."

Sam was almost as good at reading Dean as Dean was at reading him. "What about you?"

Dean shrugged.

Sam sighed. "Dean . . . "

"All right, all right, I'm freakin' starving. It feels like an alien's trying to eat its way out of my stomach." Dean hesitated, eyeing his brother. "I'm gonna wait a while. I'm not that hungry."

"Dean." Sam rolled his eyes. "Go, before you start chewing on me."

Dean nodded reluctantly. He made it as far as the door, then stopped, his hand on the doorknob.

When he didn't move, Sam said, "Dean? You okay?"

Dean nodded, not turning around. A little choking sound escaped him.

Alarmed, Sam started to get out of bed.

"Shit." Dean came back to the side of the bed, scrubbing a hand across his face. "Sorry."

Sam snagged his hand, looking anxiously into his face. "Dean, are you all right?"

Dean's face worked. "You were – " His voice broke.

"Dean, I'm here. I'm good." Eyes intent, Sam squeezed Dean's hand and was rewarded by the slight lessening of tension in his brother's body. "We're good. Yeah?"

"Yeah. But. . ."

When Dean didn't continue, Sam prompted, "What?"

"I'm sorry, man." Dean finally looked up at him. "When we had that fake fight in the yard - did you really think I was gonna leave you and go back to Dad?"

"Dean –"

"It was just – all I could think about was getting that damned demon out of him. I had to do it. I – it never occurred to me that you'd think I'd want to go back to Dad."

Sam didn't want the conversation to get too heavy; the two of them had enough to deal with right now. But Sam had something to say, too.

"I'm sorry, too, Dean."

Dean just looked confused. "For what?"

"I should've trusted you," Sam said simply.

There was a soft knock on the door. Bobby stuck his head in and beamed when he saw Sam sitting up.

"Damn, boy! About time you woke up!" He came to the bed and tested out Sam's forehead, nodding in satisfaction at the continued lack of fever. "How's the head?"

"I'll live." Sam gave the older man a heartfelt smile. "Thanks for patching me up."

Bobby patted his shoulder. "Not like I could let you bleed out in the front yard." He raised an eyebrow. "You feel up to eating?"

Sam yawned. "I think I'm going to get some more sleep. But Dean's about ready to chew off his own arm."

Bobby laughed. "I got a pot of chicken stew going. Should be ready in about half an hour. Think you can last that long?" he asked Dean.

"Yeah, sure, Bobby. Thanks."

"Good." He started to leave, turned back at the door. "Listen, Sam, John wants to see you."

Sam stiffened, eyes flashing to Dean.

"I told him he'd have to wait until you're ready," Bobby said quickly. "I just wanted you to know he's asking."

"Thanks, Bobby." Dean exchanged a glance with his brother.

Bobby nodded. "I'll bring the stew up when it's ready. You stay up here with Sam."

"You don't have to do that," Dean protested. "I can come downstairs."

Bobby shook his grizzled head firmly. "You stay with Sam."

There was a bit of awkward silence after the door clicked shut behind the old man.

"You really okay with seeing Dad?" Dean finally asked.

"Yeah, sure," Sam said at once.

"You used to be a better liar." Dean grimaced. "Sammy, you get it wasn't Dad that pulled all that shit, right?"

The younger boy nodded, but he wasn't meeting Dean's gaze.

"Listen, he can be a dick, no question," Dean persisted. "But trying to have you killed? We gotta put that one on the demon, right?"

"Why would the demon want me dead?" Sam picked nervously at the bed covers. "He said he wanted me for his army."

It wasn't quite a protest, not quite an accusation of John, but it took Dean a moment to gather a reply.

"I don't know, maybe he decided you weren't gonna do what he wanted. Maybe he's just a crazy fucker. I don't know. But it wasn't Dad. Dad says the demon took him three months before we split, when he was doing that solo werewolf hunt in Louisiana."

When Sam didn't answer, Dean grasped him by the shoulder. "Look, I'm not saying we're going back to him. I'm not saying that. It's just - I believe him."

Sam nodded. "Okay, Dean." He tried to smile. "I'm kinda tired, though. Can I see him tomorrow?"

"Whatever you want." Dean's smile was relieved. "You get some sleep. I'm gonna go take a quick shower."

Trying to put aside the thought of John, for now, Sam sank back onto his pillow, already half-asleep when the door shut behind Dean.

ΩΩΩ


	25. Chapter 25

ΩΩΩ

The bedroom door opened again.

The sound brought Sam wide awake. Startled, he lurched up in bed, reaching under his pillow for a non-existent weapon.

John stood in the doorway, bulk backlit by the hall light. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you." He took a step in. "Can we talk?"

Uneasy, but not wanting to appear weak in front of his father, Sam nodded reluctantly. He pushed himself into a sitting position against the headboard, trying to ignore his still aching head.

It was getting on toward early evening. The light in the room was dim. When John turned on the overhead light, Sam winced.

"Headache?" John switched off the overhead and went to the bedside lamp. A softer, more diffused light filled the room. "Better?"

Sam nodded. The two stared at each other, neither sure how to begin.

"How are you?" John finally ventured.

"I'm okay." Sam's hand went to his head, touched the bandage. "You?"

John shrugged. "I'm not possessed."

"Dad," Sam said. "I'm sorry – "

"Doesn't matter." John waved off his apology. "It's done now." There was an odd glint in his eyes. "I know you boys wouldn't have left me like that if you'd known."

"No." Uncomfortable, Sam cocked an ear toward the bathroom next door and cursed inwardly when he heard the shower still going strong. Dean and his long freaking showers. "Dean will be back in a minute if you –"

"I want you and Dean to come back, Sam," John said flatly. "We're a family. We should be together. And we still have a job to do."

"Our job is done, Dad. The demon is gone," Sam protested. "It'll take him years to claw his way out of Hell, if he ever does."

"Is that what you think?" Surprised, John gaped at him, then snorted. "The demon's not gone, Sam."

Sam blinked. "What?"

"The son-of-a-bitch who rode me wasn't the demon that killed your mother," John said darkly. "And not the one that's after you."

Sam shook his head, fear a solid lump in his stomach. "Dad . . . "

John came up to the bed, staring down intently at his son. Now that he was close, Sam could smell the stench of whiskey on the big man. "Dad, wait for Dean, okay?"

John didn't even hear him, lost in the hell of the last few months. "The demon who took me was a soldier," he said, fingering the knife at his belt. "Bad enough on his own, but he took his orders from someone else."

Dim light or not, Sam's headache was ramping up. He listened again for the shower but couldn't hear anything over the pounding in his head.

"We can get him now, the three of us. I called out, got word that signs have been cropping up in Colorado, his signs. We need to head over there, as soon as you can travel." John looked his son over critically. "Tomorrow morning?"

Sam stared at his father in horrified fascination. "Colorado?"

"Outside Aurora. Instead of just waiting for him to show up, we take the fight to him." His gaze turned inward. "The demon who rode me took me there once. I know just where he'll be."

Sam shook his head. "Dad, no."

John's eyes focused on Sam again. "He won't be able to resist coming after you. We can catch him, kill him. Finish this thing once and for all."

"You want to use me as bait?" The word tasted bitter on Sam's tongue.

"It's the best way to bring him out. He's linked to you, solid. We can draw him in, hook him in a devil's trap. Make him bleed."

The slick shine in John's eyes made Sam feel sick. The air in the room was getting thin, sucked into the fire of his father's fanaticism. His breath hitched in his throat.

John's lip curled a little. "You don't have to be afraid. We'll protect you."

"No!" Sam shook his head frantically. "I'm not doing it. I'm not going anywhere near him."

John seemed to be trying to hold onto his temper, but little spurts of rage curled around his words. "He killed your mother! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"I'm your son," Sam said. His lips felt numb. "Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"If you're my son, then act like it," John said harshly. He crowded forward over his son. Sam had to fight not to shrink back. "This is your responsibility, Sam. I'm not asking you. I'm telling you."

"Dad? What the hell?"

Dean stood in the open doorway, clad in jeans and bare feet, his chest still speckled with drops of water. "What the hell are you doing in here? Bobby told you to wait until Sam was ready!"

John turned to face him and now Dean could see Sam, white-faced and looking like he was ready to collapse. He moved quickly into the room and shoved his father away from the bed. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing!" John's tone was indignant. "We're just talking!"

Dean didn't try to hide his disbelief. He sat down on the bed next to Sam and put a comforting arm around him. "You all right?"

Relieved beyond words, Sam leaned against him. "I told you, Dean, I told you – "

"Calm down, Sammy," Dean said soothingly. "What's going on?"

"He wants to use me as bait."

Dean looked at their father. "Bait for what?" he growled.

John said nothing.

Sam didn't want to say it. Had to say it. "The demon."

The word fell like a stone into the quiet of the room. Dean stared at Sam, clearly wondering if his brother was off his head. "The demon's gone, Sammy," he said gently. "We sent that bastard back to Hell."

Sam looked at his father's grim face, then quickly back to the safety of his brother's. "Dad says the demon that took him isn't the one that killed Mom."

That hit Dean like a punch to the stomach. He looked at his father. John nodded.

Dean fumbled for a minute, "It's okay, Sammy. It doesn't matter. We can handle him. We don't – " He stopped, backtracked. "Bait?"

Before Sam could answer, John said roughly, "Sam doesn't want to kill the demon."

Sam stared at him. "You think I don't want him dead? After what he's done to our family? After what he's done to me?"

"Then come with me to Colorado! That's the only way this thing ends!"

"No! Just stop it, Dad! I'm done hunting!" Sam blurted out.

Sam heard Dean's sharply in-drawn breath but didn't dare look at him. He didn't know where those words had come from, but the moment they left his mouth, he knew they were the absolute truth.

He was done. With hunting, with the demon. Done, with all of it.

"So, you're just going to let the demon get away?" John said bitingly. "You're going to let people die when you can do something to stop it?"

"Quiet, Dad." Struggling to move past the shock of Sam's sudden announcement, Dean shot a glare at his father. "I'm still waiting to hear about you wanting to use Sam as bait to catch the demon."

Dean's face and voice were calm. Still, John stiffened and readied himself. "That thing killed your mother," he said defensively.

"So now I'm supposed to give him another shot at my brother? Do you have any idea what Sam's been through the last few months?"

"No more than what I've been through!" John growled. "When you left me tied to a demon and went waltzing off on your own!"

Guilt flushed over Dean's face and he glared at his father. "Asshole!"

John gestured angrily at them. "You really think the demon is just going to let you go? He'll never stop coming!"

Sam knew it didn't make any difference what he said, what argument he brought out. Nothing he'd ever wanted or said had ever mattered to the man standing before him. "I'm done arguing with you, Dad. I'm done."

"What about Dean?" John's mouth had an ugly twist. "You're willing to put him in that kind of danger?"

Sam went white and Dean flashed an unfriendly grin at his father. "Are you kidding? Now you're worried about me being in danger?" His laugh was sharp, bitter.

John stared at his eldest, then smirked. "You'll never stop hunting, Dean. You love it. You always have."

"Yeah, I do. But I love him more." Dean looked at his brother. "You been thinking about this long?"

"I don't know. I guess." Sam was confused, shocked at Dean's ready acceptance of his announcement. "Didn't talk about it 'cause I thought I couldn't have it."

"You sure this is what you want?" Dean pressed him.

"Yeah." Sam's smile was lopsided. "It's one of the few things I am sure of. That and you. I haven't thought much beyond that."

"Okay, then." Dean's smile was brilliant. "We'll figure it out together, huh?"

There was a short silence as the boys looked at each other.

When John spoke, his voice was a deep, angry rumble. "He'll find you, Sam. And if you don't join him, he'll kill you."

Sam met his father's eyes. "If he kills me tomorrow, I'm still out."

"And if he kills Dean?"

Sam looked away.

"Shut up, Dad."

"Damn it, Dean, you can't – ".

"Time to go, John." Bobby, shotgun held loosely in both hands, stood in the doorway.

John's expression hardened. For a moment Dean thought he was going to fight it. Then his father's shoulders slumped in defeat and Dean knew it was over. His anger bled away, leaving nothing but pity, and love, for the man his father used to be.

"Damn it, Dad." Rising swiftly, Dean went to his father, pulling him into a hard hug. "Don't die, okay? Don't die."

John stood stiffly for a moment, then hugged Dean back, heart clenching tightly in his chest. Over Dean's shoulder, his eyes went to his youngest son. Sam's face was expressionless. He showed no sign of wanting to follow his brother's lead.

Trembling slightly, Dean released his father and stepped back to Sam. Sam reached out silently and the two boys clasped hands.

John looked at them and his lips quirked in a tired smile. "I'll let you know when he's dead."

ΩΩΩ


	26. EPILOGUE

Austin, Texas  
January 24, 2003

ΩΩΩ

Dishes clattered in the kitchen, accompanied by a radio and Sam's soft, slightly out-of-tune voice.

Inside the small utility room next to the kitchen, an aging washing machine started its second spin cycle, last stop before Sam hauled the clothes out back to dry on the clothesline.

This time of year, he was likely to have to stick them into the dryer for a few minutes at the end of the day anyway, but he liked the way their clothes smelled after hanging in the fresh air.

Out in the back yard, Rowdy started to bark. The Alsatian next door replied quickly, followed by the Great Dane two houses down. That last kicked off a chorus of furious complaints from old Mrs. Christie's squad of Chihuahuas down the street.

Frowning, Sam looked out the window, relaxing when he saw it was only a strange dog that had Rowdy up in arms. When the stranger had passed by and the uproar settled a bit, he went down the hall and peeked in through the half-open bedroom door to check on his brother.

Still sleeping soundly, Dean didn't stir. Only the tip of his lightly freckled nose poked out from under the covers; the only sounds in the room little snuffling snores and an occasional contented sigh.

Satisfied that all was well, Sam padded silently back to the kitchen.

ΩΩΩ

Just after twelve, the smell of coffee wafted in through the bedroom door.

Dean's nose twitched, and a sleepy green eye peered out from under the covers. With a muffled groan, he rolled over onto his stomach and buried his head under his pillow.

No longer bothering to be quiet, Sam came into the bedroom, carrying a cup of steaming coffee. He sat down beside the lump in the bed and nudged it.

"Coffee, Dean," he crooned. "Coooffffeeee." He took a sip and moaned appreciatively. "Mmmmmm."

The lump shifted. "g'way."

Sam took another noisy slurp, smacking his lips. "It's your favorite, Dean. That Kona you like."

No movement for a good thirty seconds, then Dean's hand appeared from underneath the blankets, third finger extended.

Unimpressed, Sam plucked the pillow off his brother's head and tossed it into a corner of the room.

"Dude!" Dean groaned. "It's my birthday. I wanna sleep in." He smooshed his face into the wrinkled sheets.

"It's after twelve!" Sam said impatiently. "Come on! I made hash browns. And pancakes."

"Saaamm," Dean whined.

"Bacon, Dean. Lots and lots of bacon."

There was a short silence.

"You suck."

"And take a shower." Sam continued. "You smell like sex."

Dean turned over, eyes still closed, but a satisfied smirk on his lips. "That's because Karen gave me my birthday present early."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Come on, lazy ass, ten minutes, and then I'm giving the bacon to Rowdy."

With a growl, Dean made a grab for him, but Sam evaded him easily and bolted from the room, leaving the coffee on the bedside table. "Ten minutes!"

Alone, Dean briefly considered going back to sleep. Then the sound of Sam letting their big Rottweiler in the back door brought him to his feet. He downed the cooling coffee, barely pausing to breathe between gulps, then headed for the bathroom.

After relieving himself, he stepped into the shower and stuck his head under the water for a couple of blissful minutes, then dumped a fat glob of herbal shampoo onto his head, humming with pleasure as he worked it through his short-cropped hair.

"Hey, are you using my shampoo again?" Sam was a menacing shadow beyond the shower curtain.

Dean shot a quick glance at the nearly empty bottle of shampoo and stuck his head back under the water to rinse away the evidence. "Nope."

"You better not."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch." Dean saw his brother's shadow moving furtively toward the toilet. "Don't you do it!"

"Do what?" Sam asked innocently. He took another step closer to the toilet.

Cursing under his breath, Dean quickly soaped up and rinsed off. He was just reaching to turn the water off when his brother flushed the toilet and a cold blast of water hit him in the face.

"Sam, you fucker!" Turning off the water to the sound of Sam's laughter, Dean grabbed a towel off its hook and dried himself quickly. "You better watch your ass, Sammy! Payback's gonna be a bitch!"

"Promises, prom-"

BAM!

The bathroom door burst open and Rowdy's black bulk burst into the small room. With a wet whuffle, he shoved past Sam, stuck his massive head into the shower and gave Dean's naked thigh a friendly lick.

"Whoa!" Dean's hands darted down to protect his private, most important, parts. "Watch it, dog!"

Grinning, Sam pulled the dog back from the tub and rubbed his head. "Hey, Rowdy boy. Who's a good boy! Are you hungry? How's about some bacon?"

Rowdy gave an enthusiastic bark, tail wagging furiously.

"Hey! Don't you give him my bacon, fucker!" Towel wrapped around his waist, Dean shoved the curtain back and stepped out of the tub.

"Better hurry up, then, birthday boy."

Dark eyes laughing, Sam left the bathroom, Rowdy chugging eagerly along behind him.

ΩΩΩ ΩΩΩ

Hair still wet, Dean hastily pulled on cut-offs and a faded Bad Company t-shirt. He shot into the kitchen just in time to see Rowdy skarf down the last of a plate of eggs and bacon.

"Shit!" Dean threw himself down into a chair, glaring at Sam. "I can't believe you did that!"

Shrugging, Sam poured out a cup of coffee and put it on the table in front of his sulking brother. "Well, I did say ten minutes – " He burst out laughing. "Oh, man, I can't do it. You should see your face!" Chuckling, he went to the oven and pulled out a plate piled high with food, plonking it down in front of his brother.

"Think you're pretty funny, don't you?" Scowling, Dean picked up a piece of crispy bacon and stuffed it into his mouth.

Sam dropped into the opposite chair. "I think I'm adorable." He reached out for a piece of Dean's bacon and nearly lost a finger to a quickly brandished fork.

"Hands off, Sammy." Keeping a cautious eye on his brother, Dean reached for the maple syrup and drowned his pancakes. "What other torture you got planned for me today?"

"Nothing much." Sam shrugged, oh so casually. He pulled two pasteboard tickets out of his pocket and tossed them across the table.

Dean's mouth fell open and he snatched up the tickets. "Kane? How the – Sammy, these things are like gold!"

"KLBJ had a contest last week," Sam said proudly. "Free concert tickets. I camped out on the phone all week trying to get through on their contest line. I finally made it on the last two tickets!"

"Thanks, Sammy!" Dean grinned. "Awesome!" He let Sam take the tickets back, rescuing them from a syrupy death, and shoved another forkful of pancakes into his mouth. "Concert's not until 7 o'clock. What are we gonna do till then?"

"Well, more presents first. Then we can take Rowdy over to the P-A-R-K." Sam looked down at Rowdy, now snoozing under the table. "After the concert, Franklin's?"

Even with his mouth full of pancakes and syrup, and a pile of bacon on the plate in front of him, Dean's eyes glazed over at the mention of his favorite barbecue joint.

Sam snagged a piece of his bacon and Dean woke up.

"Hey!"

"Snooze, you lose!" Sam popped the bacon into his mouth. "Come on, eat up!"

ΩΩΩ ΩΩΩ

Even with the prospect of presents, Kane, and barbecue dangling in front of him, Dean still lingered over his meal.

When he finally pushed his plate back with a satisfied sigh, he looked at Sam and said hopefully, "Presents?"

Sam pushed back his chair and stood. "Presents!"

He went to the pantry and retrieved a big box from just inside the door. Lugging it back to the table, he shoved Dean's breakfast dishes to the side and set the box in front of his brother.

"Happy birthday, jerk!"

"Thanks, bitch!" Dean rubbed his hands together gleefully. Trying not to jump onto the present like a rabid wolverine, he said, "Man, I love birthdays!"

"Open it." Sam handed Dean a short-bladed knife and nudged him impatiently. "Come on, open it!"

Dean carefully slit open the box. Looking inside, he drew in a sharp breath. "Oh, man! A record player!" He lifted out a reddish-brown turntable, and set it carefully on the table, running reverent fingers over the burnished wood.

"Oh, man. Sammy, this is just . . ."

Sam was practically bouncing up and down with excitement. "Do you like it?"

"Are you kidding?" Dean's smile was wide, infectious and completely sincere. "I love it!"

Beaming, Sam held out another package - square, lightweight and wrapped in screamingly cheerful Spongebob Squarepants wrapping paper.

Careful not to tear it - he loved the little yellow fucker - Dean peeled the paper away from the treasure inside.

"Holy crap!"

Led Zeppelin's first album. Both album and cover in perfect condition.

Overwhelmed, Dean ran his fingers reverently over the embossed logo. "Sammy, this is amazing. Thank you."

"Look inside!" Sam urged him.

"What, more?" Dean peered inside the album cover and, with a questioning glance at Sam, pulled out the envelope nestled inside. Inside that was a gift certificate. "Out of the Past. New and old albums," he read aloud.

"I knew you'd like the Zeppelin," Sam said smugly. "And they've got a ton of other really cool stuff."

Dean carefully set the album down on top of the record player and lifted Sam off the floor in a fierce hug. "Thanks, Sam. Best birthday ever."

"Better than when Dad gave you the Impala?" Sam snickered at the scandalized expression on Dean's face. "Just kidding. Let's go set it up." He gestured to the turntable. "Oh, and it's got built-in speakers, but you can pick up some bigger ones later, if you want."

"Damn right I'll get big speakers," Dean said enthusiastically. "Blast your freaking eardrums out."

They trooped into the living room, Rowdy trotting behind them. Once they had the player set up, Dean eased the Zeppelin album out of its cover, set it onto the turntable, and placed the needle carefully onto the first track. Robert Plant's distinctive vocals filled the room and the brothers bumped fists and dropped onto the couch to listen.

Dean sighed blissfully as the first track faded seamlessly into the second. "Thanks, Sammy. Really."

Sam nodded, eyes shining with pleasure.

Presents hadn't played a big part in their life when they were growing up. On the road with their father, there hadn't been money for "extras". Even if there had been, there hadn't been room in the Impala anything beyond necessities.

Things were different now. They were both working and, after that tight first year, they were living, if not high on the hog, certainly better than they ever had before.

For Sam's birthday in May, Dean had given him a couple of bookcases and gift cards to several of Austin's new and used bookstores.

Dizzy with the prospect of not just buying books but actually keeping them, Sam had taken hours to settle on his first choice - a worn, leather bound copy of The Three Musketeers.

Once that title had broken the ice, it was quickly followed by The Last of the Mohicans, The Stand, a fat Dashiell Hammett compilation and several of Robert Heinlein's earlier works, which had Sam cackling in covetous glee for hours.

The rest of the gift cards had gone quickly after that and the original two bookcases had been joined by several more, all stuffed full.

The album's second track ended. The third began.

Rowdy came to the couch and put his head on Dean's thigh, looking up at him soulfully.

"Okay, boy. Park!" Dean patted the big animal's head. "Let's get this party started!"

ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ

ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ

That night, well past midnight - post-dog park, post-concert and after way too much barbecue - Sam woke with a sudden jerk. Trembling, covered with a slick, cold sweat, he couldn't remember the dream that had woken him, but knew from experience that sleep was done with him for the night.

After staring up at the ceiling for a few minutes, he switched on the bedside lamp and picked up the book he'd been reading before bed the last few nights, but, after a few minutes, put it aside. Right now, not even Robert Crais could hold his attention.

"Hey." Dressed in sweats and a thread-bare AC/DC t-shirt, Dean stood at his open door. "Can't sleep?"

Sam shrugged. "What are you doing up?"

"Pie."

Sam groaned, the mere thought of food making him feel slightly nauseous. "Dean, how can you even think of eating? I'm still stuffed full of barbecue!"

"Don't hate, Sammy. There's always room for pie." Dea yawned. "Come keep me company."

"Don't you think I have better things to do that watch you eat pie?"

"Nope. If you did, you'd be doing it." Dean disappeared down the hall.

With a sigh, Sam climbed out of bed and trailed after.

When he got to the kitchen, Dean was already sitting at the table. The last, lonely piece of pie sat in front of him; his fork was at the ready.

Sam sat down opposite. "If you puke, I'm not cleaning it up."

Dean forked up the first bite. "Not in a million years, bro," he mumbled. Pastry crumbs sprayed across the table.

"You're a class act."

"You love it, Sammy," Dean said complacently. "Everybody loves the birthday boy."

"It's after midnight. Birthday's over."

"Nope. It's my birthday till tomorrow morning. Oh, forgot to tell you," Dean mumbled through another messy bite. "Bobby called. He should roll in Saturday morning."

"Great."

"I was thinking we'd take him out to the Quarries on Sunday morning, get in a little fishing."

"In January?"

Dean snorted. "Dude, he lives in South Dakota. January in Austin's gonna feel like summer to him."

"Yeah, I guess." Brow furrowed, Sam stared absently into space.

Dean's big brother radar started to ping. "What's up?"

Sam straightened, looking surprised and a little guilty. "What? Nothing."

"Are you upset about Bobby coming here? He'll make sure nobody follows him, Dad or anybody else."

"Dean, no," Sam protested. "I want to see him. It's been too long."

Dean studied him for a long moment. There was something. . . "Nightmare?"

Flushing, Sam looked away.

"Oh, hell, no!" Dean got to his feet and rounded the table. He took Sam by the chin and forced him to meet his eyes. "Let's try this again. Nightmare?"

Sam nodded, mouth tight. "Yeah. I don't remember what it was about, but – yeah."

Dean straightened, letting Sam go. He'd begun to think, hope, that Sam's dreams were gone for good, driven away by their new, normal, life. "You said you'd let me know if you had any more," he said, suddenly suspicious. "You haven't been holding out on me, have you?"

"No, Dean. No." Shaken by the sudden sideways turn the night had taken, Sam's voice trembled. "I just – We were having such a great day. I would've told you."

Wanting to let it go, but needing to ask, Dean said tentatively, "Do you think it was him?"

"No. Fuck, I don't know. How the hell would I know?" Frustrated, Sam started to get up.

"Hold on." Dean kept him in the chair. "It's not your fault. It's not like you can control your dreams."

"I know. I'm just – " Sam gestured helplessly. "Things are going so good. Why do I always have to - " A rush of rage and pain washed over him. "Shit, why am I such a fucking freak!"

"Sam!" Dean snapped. "First of all, don't talk that way about my baby brother or I'll kick your ass!"

He waited until Sam nodded.

"Second, I just remembered, the last time you had a nightmare was on your birthday."

Sam's face went blank with surprise. After a moment, he nodded slowly. "Yeah, I remember."

"So, birthdays."

"Huh." Sam thoughtfully chewed that over.

Dean dug a little. "What is it about birthdays?"

Sam grimaced, thinking back over the last few days. "Maybe - maybe they make me think too much."

"About what?"

"You. Me," Sam said reluctantly. "Our life, I guess."

"The small stuff, huh?" Dean gave him a teasing poke and Sam batted his hand away.

"Cut it out."

"We don't have to celebrate birthdays if you don't want," Dean said after a moment. "It's no big deal."

"Nah." Sam sighed, half-smiling at Dean's clearly reluctant offer. "I'll deal. This place is good, we're good. It's just - I don't know how long it's gonna last."

"Come on, man. Nobody knows what's gonna happen next," Dean said simply. "That's just life. We might stay here another year, or maybe five. Hell, we could be gone tomorrow. All we can do is take it as it comes. Gott let the rest of it go."

They sat quietly for a while, Sam staring into the middle distance, and Dean watching him intently, knowing that Sam was worrying about more than outside forces working against them. Knowing from long familiarity the kind of self-doubt likely to be eating at him,

When Sam moved at last to get up, Dean didn't stop him. He watched as Sam picked up the plate and fork from the table and dumped them into the sink. Watched as he stared silently through the window over the sink into the darkness outside.

At last he crossed, stood behind his little brother. He was close enough to touch him, but he didn't. "Sammy," he said softly.

Sam didn't turn, just listened, staring at his brother's reflection in the kitchen window.

"Whatever happens, we'll face it together." He hesitated, then slipped his arms around Sam, and hugged him tight, needing his brother to hear him. "Yeah?"

Face working, Sam turned into Dean's arms. The two clutched each other and held on tight.

No more words were needed, at least for now. They stood, as always, together; each one safe in the arms of the only home they had ever known; the only one they would ever need.

Brothers.

Winchesters.

THE END


End file.
